


The Lost Days of Melody Pond

by JaneScarlett



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneScarlett/pseuds/JaneScarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew who she would become: Doctor River Song, his wild, impetuous, gun-slinging archeologist. But the Doctor often wondered about who she had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it begins, as ever, with a book

**Author's Note:**

> previously (simultaneously?) posted on FFN, and just getting around to re-editing it, and posting here on archive.
> 
> Thanks to Sarah Blackwood for the beta and endless listening to me whine about characterization.

It was Amy who found it first. In fact, her gasp was what alerted him even to its presence.

“What have you got there, Pond?” The Doctor asked, doing a vaulting leap over the railings of the console to join her on the stairs.

“Oh…” Amy’s eyes shifted away, a little guiltily. “It’s Mels’ – River’s – well, it’s her sketchbook.”

 _Fascinating_. He’d never pictured River drawing, somehow. Of course, anything was possible especially in regards to River Song and what she was capable of. He should have learned long ago not to be surprised by her; but here he was. Surprised again.

“Ooh, let me see,” he said, reaching forward to take it from her, but Amy was the one surprising him now. She held it behind her back, shaking her head.

“Better not,” she said, teasingly. “She gets very protective of it. She’s only even shown it to me once or twice, and only a few pages, not everything. Actually, she gave me one of the pages… said I could keep it.

“But she doesn’t like anyone to see it. No, Doctor,” Amy said, still shaking her head at him, and passing the book around her body as he attempted to lunge behind her. “I’m serious. Have Rory tell you about the day she broke his nose, when he tried to take a blank page from the back.” 

“She broke his nose?” the Doctor asked, momentarily distracted. “Is that what happens, if you break your nose? It grows back longer?” He did a Pinocchio-mine in front of his face, and Amy glowered. He tried to take that opportunity to try grab for it again, but no good. She shifted her weight over and promptly sat on the book, thereby ensuring its safety.

“She gave,” Amy told him, slowly enunciating each syllable, “her own Dad a broken nose.” She leaned over and caught his eyes with her own.

“I don’t know how much clearer I can be, Doctor. Don’t touch it.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s a question I’m not asking here; a very, very important question. If she is so protective about this book that even you have only seen it once or twice…why do you have it, then?”

Amy suddenly looked very shifty, and her entire posture went defensive. “I went into her room here on the TARDIS…” she mumbled. “Wanted to see if there was anything for the laundry…”

A lie, through and through. Amy might say that _he_ was no good at lying, but she wasn’t either. Especially not if you knew her. Amelia Pond avoided laundry, as one would the carnivorous bees in the gardens of Rochen that tried to take a surreptitious nip out of you when you stopped to smell the flowers.

“Pond,” the Doctor said, standing up and offering her a hand. She accepted, but kept her fingers on the book; clearly ready to whisk it away from him if he tried to grab it again. 

Which he didn’t, of course. No good trying now, when she was on guard.

“Do you think I was born yesterday?”

“No, I think you were born 909 years ago,” Amy sighed. “But —alright! I was snooping a bit. She’s my daughter! I’m allowed. Plus, she left it on the bed.”

“Well," the Doctor said, templing his hands and tapping his index fingers together, “Mels. She was just a bit, well, you know…” he lowered his voice, “ _violent_.”

“Mmm,” Amy said, fixing him with a wide-eyed, placating look. 

“River is very different. Calm, even. I think she’d let me see it,” he told Amy. “At least she’d never break _my_ nose.”

“Mmm,” Amy said again. She turned and walked out of the room, without saying anything more. 

“We might call her River Song now, Doctor, but trust me,” Amy said when she returned, sans book. He tried to hide his scowl. “Some parts of her have not changed that much.

“Don’t touch the book.”

* * *

The trouble with humans is that they always make Rules.

Don’t say _this_. Don’t go _there_. Don’t do _that_.

Don’t touch the sketchbook.

The nice thing about being the Doctor was that he never bothered to follow them.

It was late when he snuck into River’s room. So late that Amy had been talking in her sleep for a few hours now, and Rory’s answering snores had gotten boring. He’d already done some great things that night. Averting a possible war between two neighboring planets. Watched a supernova explode. Killer Karaoke at a scruffy little bar on planet Ames. (He made a mental note to take River back there; shooting aliens who sang bad karaoke would appeal to her.)

But now it was late, and he was bored; and what else should a Time Lord do when he’s bored at night… and temptation to ease said boredom is just down a hallway, three turns to the left, a sharp right past the coffee machine and then two doors away?

Yes. That’s right. Take a little peek through his wife’s belongings.

Not _all _of them, clearly. He’d done that once, checking whose bedroom it was when it first appeared on the TARDIS. Curiously opened a drawer, and found some interesting things that…__

Well, suffice it to say, his cheeks were very red, for quite a while.

But this was safe. Amy had placed the book back onto the bed, and that’s just where he stole it from, before running out of the room with the purloined book beneath his arm.

He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he opened it. Childish stick figures? Complicated, three-dimensional still lifes? Plans for robbing bank vaults?

Oh, the Doctor was expecting everything other than what he found.

Circles.

Circles within circles within circles. Wobbly in the center, but by the outside of the first page, they were already being executed with confidence and ease. Modern Gallifreyan, written by a little girl on Earth who could only have been born with the knowledge, just as all Time Lords were.

And suddenly he understood why she was so protective of her book; why she would have shown only Amy a page or two; why she hadn’t even blinked when he told her to keep a journal of the times when they met.

It wasn’t a sketchbook at all. River had been keeping a diary, long before she ever got that little blue book.


	2. May, 1968

Curiosity compelled him, more than anything else. Curiosity to know more about her, how she thought, the things she had done…

That first page was drawn in pink pencil, almost a little hard to read against the faded yellow of the paper. His finger traced the wobbly circles in the centre, working to decipher what she’d written there.

_My name is Melody Pond. I was born at a place called Demon’s Run, but I can’t find it on any map, not even at school._

_I live in Florida, at Greystark Hall. It is very scary looking on the outside, and very scary looking on the inside. There are big, dark staircases that I have to go up and down all the time, because my room is right at the top of the house._

_My room is not so scary, compared the rest of the house. I have a pink striped bedspread and a teddy bear lamp, and small toy chest. Also, I have three teddy bears, and four dolls, and two pretty pictures of ballerinas, and a rocking horse, and a Noah’s Ark toy with only one giraffe left, and a mobile of stars that I made in school. The things I do not have are a Mom or a Dad._

_I had a mother once. Her name is Amelia Pond, and she lives in a town called Leadworth. She has red hair and green eyes and is beautiful. I have a picture of her, and I kiss it every night so I will remember what she looks like._

_I must have had a Dad once too, but I don’t know what he looks like, or who he is. I don’t know his real name, I mean. He’s just called the Last Centurion, which sounds like a funny name to me._

_Mean-Miss-One-Eye told me about my parents. She has a real name, but I don’t like it. A Kovarian sounds like a dessert, one with chocolate and strawberries and lots of cream. It doesn’t suit her. She is mean and angry –even when her voice pretends to be nice– and wears all black and an eye patch like a pirate. So I call her Mean-Miss-One-Eye, in my head._

_When I have to see her, I don’t call her anything at all._

_She teaches me at night. But it’s not like school with other kids and teachers and lunch in the cafeteria. It’s just her and me, in this dark, dark room. And she tells me all about Him. The Bad Man. The Bad Space Man they call the Doctor._

_She tells me that he starts wars; but I don’t really understand, even when she explains what war is. I guess it’s like when, in school, Bobby Miller stole my lunch and pushed me into a puddle. War is just people doing bad things to each other. But I don’t understand how the Bad Space Man called the Doctor starts wars. Unless he pushes people into puddles too, to get their school shoes squishy._

_She tells me that he lies and hurts people and puts them in danger. I don’t understand how he does that either. Bobby Miller likes to pinch all the girls and make them cry. I told him once that he’s like a small version of the Bad Space Man. Then he called me stupid, and pinched me, and lied to the teacher about me hitting him, and I got in trouble._

_I don’t really know if the Bad Space Man does things like that too._

_But the worst thing that Mean-Miss-One-Eye tells me is that I have nothing; no Mom or Dad or a real home, or nice toys or anything… and it’s all because of Him. And that even if I have three teddy bears, and four dolls, and two pretty pictures of ballerinas, and a rocking horse, and a Noah’s Ark, and a mobile of stars; it’s still nothing. Because I should have had love, and that’s something that I will never get for my whole life. And it’s all because the Bad Space Man called the Doctor is BAD, and wanted to keep my Mom and Dad and their love all for himself._

_She tells me that over and over until I cry._

_And then she tells that that I’ve done a good job, and we’re finished for tonight._

_And then, I can come back up the long scary stairs to my room, with the dirty white walls, and the puffy, blistered paint on the ceiling and the pink striped bedspread that’s a bit faded and stained when you look at it too closely. My room, where I’m always all alone. And I hug my bears until I stop crying, and then I play with the stars on my mobile to watch them sparkle in the moonlight. And then I write everything down here, and kiss Mom goodnight and go to sleep._

He closed the book, crept back to River’s room and laid it down on the bed. Amy still mumbled in her sleep, and Rory still snored, so it was a good time to take the little trip he had in mind.

It was just a little trip, honestly. One to ease the flashes of pain in his hearts, and the lump in his throat, and the tears in his eyes that he’d had to struggle to keep from falling on the page he was reading.

It was true he’d never found Melody Pond. He couldn’t. Madame Kovarian and the Silence had hidden her well, behind layers and layers of perception filters and transfer particles and, oh, a billion other things.

But one small bully named Bobby Miller, he could find. And despite the Doctor’s fondness for children, this at least he could do.

Bobby had the life Melody dreamed of. The nice house. The nice parents. A big bedroom, full of light and toys and love.

He couldn’t take that away. But he could make Bobby think that he had. Make him aware that being a bully was wrong, that you shouldn’t treat people that way, and especially not little girls like Melody.

The Doctor worked lightning fast, pushing toys beneath the bed, hiding a psychic interface within the cupboard to make Bobby’s nightmares seem real. 

And then he woke him up, and took him on a trip designed to make even old Ebenezer from Dickens’ story quake within ten minutes.

It only took six.

Yes, the Doctor admitted to himself, later that night. He was just that good. True, he’d been terrifying an eight year old, and not a fictional old man, but still… he was good.

And maybe, just _maybe_ saved little Melody some heartache, the only way he could.


	3. January, 1970

The Doctor had many busy days. Days spent in exploring distant planets and chatting with alien life forms. Days spent answering distress beacons, and saving races, and running, and fighting. (But most often, despite whatever else was going on: running.)

And yet he found time each night to read another page of Melody’s diary.

He read of her little losses and triumphs, written always in pink pencil. He read -with a great deal of satisfaction- about her shock when Bobby Miller came to school, quiet and chastened, no longer pinching the girls, or tripping anyone or getting them in trouble. He read about how much she hated math; how happy she was when she got 100 on a history exam about ancient Rome; and how scared she was to enter the school spelling bee… and yet how proud when she conquered her nerves, and won first place.

He read and he read and he read, getting to know her. Little Melody Pond, a child who found ways to be happy despite all the things against her. He read to understand River a little better, and with each page he passed, he felt he did.

And the Doctor forgot, nearly forgot that her story did not have the happy ending that he hoped she would. Until he turned a page, and remembered.

_I have run away_ , Melody had written. The Doctor’s fingers stilled, caressing the circles she’d had drawn all those years ago. No more pretty pink pencils, here. No, here there was smudged lead from a dull yellow pencil, and tear stains.

_I never thought I could be so sad. But I am. I am sad and mad and my stomach hurts and I cough a lot and cry all the time now._

_Here are the things that have made me sad._

_Mean-Miss-One-Eye told me that it was time for me to do my next training. She pulled out a white suit, a big helmet with a mirror on the visor._

_“Get in,” she told me, holding it open for me to step in._

_“I don’t want to,” I said. The fingers on the suit twitched when I got near. It seemed like it was alive._

_“Get in,” she insisted, shaking the suit._

_“No!” I tried to get away from her, but she reached out and grabbed my arm. Hard._

_“When I tell you to do something, Melody Pond,” she hissed, bringing her face down to mine, “you do it.”_

_I tried to fight away from her, but she tutted, picking me up to force my feet into the suit, zipping it up my front. I tried to move my hand to unzip it, but my hand wouldn’t move. The fingers of the suit opened and closed, but I was so scared because it wasn’t my fingers moving. My fingers were staying stiff and open, but the fat white suit fingers opened and closed, again and again and again._

_I was screaming when she put the helmet on. I don’t know why I stopped. Maybe because I had just realized it wouldn’t do any good._

_I have never been so scared. Even of the staircases at the Greystark Hall. In my head, I whispered for someone to save me. Anyone. Anyone at all! Maybe the President. Everyone knows that the President of the United States can do anything._

_I dreamed, while I was in the suit. I dreamed that I called the President and told him the Space Man ate me. He asked me where I was, and promised that he’d come to get me. But he didn’t. Instead came Mean-Miss-One-Eye, over and over._

_“You have been chosen,” she told me every night, “for a wonderful thing. You are the hope of the world, Melody.” Her voice did that thing that she always does when she is trying to sound nice. She sounds like a little girl, and she gives me a smile. I do not smile back._

_“I don’t want to be the hope of the world,” I told her. “I want to go home.”_

_“You can never go home,” Mean-Miss-One-Eye said. “You don’t have a home. Remember?_

_“More important,” she said, leaning close to me, “do you remember why?”_

_Yes, of course I knew why. The Bad Space Man called the Doctor. Because of him, I don’t have a Mom or a Dad or a home or love._

_“You are the hope of the world,” Mean-Miss-One-Eye repeated. She was still leaning close to me, her breath fogging up my visor. “You will kill the Doctor, and set us all free.”_

_Here is another thing that made me sad: I don’t want to kill anything. I don’t even like killing spiders. I throw shoes at them with my eyes closed, and hope that I can squash them from across the room._

_Even if the Bad Space Man called the Doctor is BAD, I don’t want to kill him._

_So I tried to run away. I tried, but my feet wouldn’t move, unless the white suit wanted them to. They walked me to a dark room in a warehouse, moving slowly closer and closer to some people on the floor._

_And then I found another thing that made me sad._

_I met my mother. My beautiful mother, Amelia Pond from Leadworth. Amelia Pond with the long red hair and the green eyes and pretty smile, and a gold necklace with an ‘A’ on it._

_And she shot me._

_The only good thing is that I wasn’t hurt. My helmet had a hole in it, but I wasn’t hurt, not even a little. But it was like that gunshot did something to the suit. It was easier to breathe, and easier to move. I could make the suit obey me and walk when I wanted it to, instead of it walking me._

_I went back to my bedroom at Greystark, walking in to find someone in there. Someone with red hair, someone instantly recognizable. My mother spun around, from looking at my pictures. Pictures that had been taken of me at school, or on class trips._

_Here is the other good thing. She apologized for shooting me._

_But here is a bad thing, again. She didn’t know who I am._

_I opened my mouth to tell her. I am Melody Pond! I am Melody Pond, your daughter, Melody Pond. The daughter you didn’t want because the Bad Space Man stole your love before you could even give any to me._

_But all I could do was ask her to help me. If she helped me out of the suit, then I could tell her who I am. I could ask her everything I wanted to. My Dad’s real name, and why she travels with the Bad Space Man even if he is bad, and most important why she didn’t want me enough to give me a home and love me._

_But she screamed, and melted into nothing. And then I screamed and tried to get to her. I ripped open the suit, tearing past metal pieces and plastic wires and the awful white outside to climb out and get over to where she had stood, just moments ago._

_But she was gone, and I heard voices coming closer, right outside the door. So I hid, until the three men with the loud voices went away, and one woman in a blue dress who didn’t say much at all._

_And then, I ran away._

_I stuffed my diary, and two dresses and my favorite sweater for if it got cold, and all my pictures, and the smallest of my teddy bears into my schoolbag. And then I went down those awful stairs at the Greystark Hall for the last time, and left Florida._

_One time, at school, we were talking about travelling, and train schedules, and ships that would take you around the world. I looked up Leadworth, to see where my mom comes from. It’s in England, and the easiest way to get there is to take a ship from New York._

_So I went to New York, because maybe I could get to England from there. I pretended to belong to a big family that was travelling across the country on a vacation. Every time the train conductor came by, I would stand by their seats and he would ignore me._

_The whole trip, I thought about England, and about my Mom, and wondered if she was alright. Maybe she would have helped me, if she hadn’t melted. Maybe Mean-Miss-One-Eye was wrong, and my Mom would have loved me, just a little. The maybes gave me hope._

_But I couldn’t get to England. I couldn’t sneak onto a ship, no matter how much I tried. And the weeks went by as I stayed in New York; sleeping under newspaper in alleys, and eating food that people threw away. And the more time that passed, the sadder I got about my Mom melting and not knowing who I was; and the madder I got about the Bad Space Man called the Doctor. My Mom told me that she had shot me, because I was going to kill him. She still loved him, more than me._

_It is January 1970 now. I am very cold in just my dress and a sweater, and my stomach hurts, and every time I cough my chest aches. I think I am dying, and maybe this is all the fault of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor. I wish that I had a Mom and Dad and a home, and nice toys, and the love that Mean-Miss-One-Eye said I can never have._

_Something inside my head tells me that I won’t die, no matter how sick I get. I’ll just change a little bit. I’m afraid to do it by myself though. I’m always so alone. I wish I had someone to be here with me._

There were times that the Doctor knew the TARDIS was quite firmly on his side, and this was one of them. He gave her only the sketchiest of suggestions, to find someone who would help Melody. Someone to be there with her.

And his old girl delivered, like she always did. He patted the console gently, murmuring a thank-you, as he skidded and leapt toward the doors, wrenching them open in his haste and nearly barrelling into a man running from a darkened alley.

“There’s a little girl,” the man gabbled. “There’s a little girl, coughing and…shining.” He grabbed the Doctor by the lapels of his jacket, eyes wide as he gibbered.

“Man, she‘s shining. Her hands. How is she shining?!”

“Sometimes those things happen,” the Doctor said, his voice much calmer than he felt inside. “But the little girl back there? I bet she’s not still there; I think I saw her running away. But I think she had a friend named Melody with her, who will need someone to take care of her.

“Can you do that?” the Doctor asked. “Go get her friend, and take her to a police station to make sure she’ll be cared for? She‘s all alone back there.”

The man’s eyes were starting to show a semblance of normality, and he nodded, gulping instinctively.

“New York is a bad city, for a little girl alone,” he said.

“It is,” the Doctor agreed. “Would you help her?

“Here,” he thrust his hand into his pocket, hoping to find some of that money that humans liked to use. It was useless to him, of course; he never understood why printing some numbers on a paper was so necessary for humans. (Proper currencies ought to be items with weight, and meaning.) But he liked the smell and the texture of the paper, so often he kept a bill or two squashed down in his pocket to play with. “Take this.”

“I don’t need money,” the man told him, shaking his head. “Of course I’ll help. Little girl,” he mumbled, turning back into the alley, “alone in New York. Don’t need to take no money to help a child. Police station is just around the corner anyway.”

The Doctor watched as the man walked away, knowing what he’d find. A toddler, alone in New York City. But hopefully, not so alone as she had feared she’d be.


	4. February, 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had a major edit after TATM aired, reflecting what was *possibly* set up. Maybe. (oh, who knows if Moffat had a plan.)  
> Thanks to Sylva Dax for letting me borrow her idea.

So now he knew what had happened to little Melody Pond. Dying sick and alone, regenerating by herself in an alleyway in New York City. Saved by a homeless man, taken to a police station where she would -hopefully- be cared for.

Oh, the Doctor fought with himself for a few days. He wanted to know what happened; and yet the thought of reading it, of seeing her handwriting in Modern Gallifreyan calmly relating events that he couldn’t fix…well, it _hurt_. He was the Doctor. He should be able to fix anything.

So he fought against the urge to read more, just one more page to see what happened. Took the Ponds on adventures, all in the name of fun. In truth, it was in the name of distraction. Distraction for them, seeing things that were new and fascinating (and frequently dangerous, if -as he tried not to be- he was honest with himself).

But not distracting for him. Not as much as they should be, anyway.

His brain was full of curiosity. He wanted to know about the rest of her life, the things River had filed away in her head that she never talked about.

And in the end, it was that curiosity that drove him back to her room, back to the sketchbook.

Purple ink, now. Purple circles covering the pages, thin and delicate in small loops. He twisted his legs beneath himself, lay half sprawled on her bed as he bent his head down to read.

_My name is Melody Lafayette. I was born in a place called Demon’s Run, which can not be found on any map. I lived for eight years in Florida, in a large, scary place called Greystark Hall, until I ran away._

_And now I live in New York City._

_I have come to like New York. There are tall buildings everywhere, and a lot of people that rush from place to place. There are always interesting things going on, and lights everywhere; bright lights that never go out. I like the lights. They keep everything illuminated, and hold back the dark._

_People say that this is the city that never sleeps. I am a lot like New York, because I never sleep either._

_I have bad dreams, every time I close my eyes. Bad dreams that I don’t remember when I wake up, terrified and shaking. Bad dreams that make me cry and cry, and bad dreams that make me angry until I want to run away again._

_At the agency, they say that I am ten years old, but in my head I know that I am much older. I remember many things, things that never happened to me. Not the me that I am right now; but to the me that I was, back in Florida. The me that was Melody Pond, the daughter of Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion, who was supposed to kill the Bad Space Man called the Doctor._

_But I am not Melody Pond anymore. I am Melody Lafayette; and most days, I try to forget about Melody Pond._

_I have had so many different homes over the last seven years that I can’t remember them all. I was at the first one the longest, I do know that. Four years, at least… four years with parents who taught me to call them Mommy and Daddy, and a brother whose name -when I was first learning to talk- I couldn’t pronounce, so I called him Ant._

_If I really try, I can call up memories of that first home. An apartment with a blue door, tea parties in the afternoons and soccer games with Ant on the weekends. Daddy, armed with kisses and band-aids and chocolate whenever I skinned my knee or banged an elbow, wiping away my tears and telling me to be brave because he knew his girl could survive a bump or two. Mommy, brushing my hair and laughing at the things I would say, hugging me and saying how proud she was of me, how wonderful and smart and funny she thought I was; and she hoped I would never, ever change._

_I even remember that bedtime was a ritual: snack time and bath time and story time before Mommy and Daddy would come with whispers of I-love-you-for-always and promises that enough hugs and kisses would keep bad dreams away… which worked, I think. I certainly don’t remember having such bad dreams when I lived there._

_But I don’t remember **them** , really. I suppose I was so little then; and now, the older I get, the more they seem to exist in the back of my mind like a dreamed-up story, a fairy tale recollected in only brief images and fragments of sentences._

_And I was only with them four years, anyway. She got sick -or was it him?- and I was sent back into foster care. ‘Just for awhile,’ the case worker told me as they pried me off Ant and pulled me, crying and confused, out the door. ‘Just until they can take care of you again.’_

_I wonder sometimes what happened to them. I used to ask my case workers; but apparently their concern is only for me, not for the families I used to live with… so they never had any information to tell me, and eventually I stopped asking._

_It’s been at least five homes I’ve lived at since that first one; and at the beginning, I’m always hopeful. I meet my new parents and I gaze up into a new set of faces, wishing that maybe I’ll be as happy as I vaguely remember being in that first home._

_And each time, it seems, I find myself in a pretty apartment, with a pretty mother who pets my long blond hair, and a father who praises the intelligence in my green eyes. They both speak in gentle, cooing voices about having me take ballet and piano lessons, of my growing up to be a teacher or a doctor; and I smile and nod at them… though I am always very careful (after the first set of parents I offended) not to ever mention that I do not want to be a doctor. In the back of my mind lives a whisper reminding me of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor; and I don’t ever want to share anything with him, not even a profession._

_But those are Melody Pond‘s memories and her type of thoughts; and I am not her. I choose not to be… and I try to tell them what they want to hear, try to be the little girl they want._

_And yet, slowly, the same thing happens at each home, no matter how promising the beginning. When I say the things I think about, I get puzzled looks and nervous laughter. Their gentle, cooing voices become more gentle when I wake up at night, frightened. Then they become worried. And then comes the worst thing of all, when they get angry._

_“There’s something not right about her,” my Last Mother said flatly to Children‘s Services. “She’s not normal.”_

_“Melody is rather a… special child,” the social worker said, in a quiet voice. She glanced at me, worried that I was listening. I pretended that I wasn’t. But I was. Even if I tried not to, my ears were so sharp that I could always hear conversations, even from across the room._

_“She’s had a very difficult life. Found abandoned on the street, when she was three. Her first foster home ended badly through no fault of hers, and since then, she’s been through a lot._

_“But,” she added, “she’s a very clever little girl. That first family thought she could do no wrong; always saying how sweet she was, how smart-”_

_“All that was in her file,” my Last Mother interrupted. “I don’t know what child those people saw, but it’s not the one we’ve had. She says funny things sometimes, strange comments that don’t make sense, or are far too old for a child of her years. And you never told us she has violent nightmares! Wakes up screaming six nights out of seven, and we can’t calm her down for hours.”_

_My social worker sighed, shaking her head. “I’d hoped your home would be the one for her.”_

_“It’s not, and we simply can’t keep her. I’m sorry.”_

_I was sorry too. Of all the families I had been with in recent years, I’d liked them the best. I’d liked him with his playful laughter, and her with the long red hair that reminded me of the picture of Amelia Pond that I still have. And I’d tried, really tried to be the daughter they wanted… and yet they’d still returned me like I was a ripped dress or a broken frying pan, and not a person at all._

_“What are we to do with you, Melody?” asked the social worker, after everyone had gone, and it was just the two of us. “What is inside your head?”_

_Maybe there is something bad inside my head, something wrong, something that no one wants. I don’t know why that first family didn’t see it; but maybe they did, and it was deliberate I wasn’t able to stay with them._

_Maybe Mean-Miss-One-Eye, who I try also to forget was right; and maybe Melody Lafayette, like Melody Pond before her, is still something defective that no one will ever want._

_I end up in another group home, but I hear them murmuring when they think I am out of earshot, that they think this will be permanent. They will look for another family to foster me, but it is probably a waste of time. Far better to search for homes for children who will grow and thrive, rather than wasting time with one damaged little girl._

_So I live here, in the Lower East Side Children’s Home. I go to a local school, where the teachers shrink back from what they have been told about me and what they see in my eyes, and yet praise me for my intelligence. I am so smart, they say, that they have no problem skipping me from grade to grade, class to class. I skip one grade, and then two, and still take advanced and honors classes in science, history and languages._

_This Home is a far different place than the one Melody Pond lived in, with her pink bedspread and the two ballerina pictures, and the four dolls and the three teddy bears. Here, I share a bedroom with three other girls who constantly change as they move away and go to live with families who want them. I have a heavy grey blanket, and two pairs of shoes, and three dresses, a pile of school books that I keep by my bed, and a flashlight so I can do homework after the lights go out, to keep away the bad dreams._

_And I have still have this diary, Melody Pond’s diary; and though I try to forget her, not to even think about her… sometimes I do. Sometimes, when I feel very lonely, I look at the pictures hidden inside to remember Florida, my star mobile in the window, and my pretty mother, Amelia Pond. I’ve lost the teddy bear, though, I think I forgot him back at the home with my Last Mother and Father._

_It might be childish to feel this way, but I miss him. It feels even lonelier here, without him. Maybe Mean-Miss-One-Eye was right, and it is just the way the world works that I have nothing._

He was back in the kitchen of the TARDIS when Rory stumbled in, barefoot in faded blue pyjama bottoms and hair sticking up.

“Are you still up? Don’t you ever sleep, Doctor?” Rory yawned, knuckling his eyes.

“Sometimes,” the Doctor admitted. “On occasion. Well, rarely. Time Lords; we don’t need sleep as much as you humans. Brain just keeps going, keeps working. Hard to sleep when you have so many thoughts, so many things that catch your attention all the time.”

“Sounds,” Rory said, filling a glass with water and coming to sit at the table, “tiring. Feel like I need a nap, just thinking about that.”

“Is Amy asleep?” the Doctor asked, sipping his tea. “Why are you awake?”

“Oh, she had a nightmare and kicked me, pretty hard.” Rory winced, rubbing his calf. “Thought I’d get a drink, and then try sleeping again. Maybe away from the range of her feet.”

The Doctor grinned. “Good luck with that,” he said cheerily. Rory smiled. Amy was fierce, in so many ways… and never more so than when she was sleeping.

“So what have you been doing tonight?” Rory asked, breaking the companionable silence they’d been sitting in.

“Oh,” the Doctor said, tipping his chair back to see how far he could go without falling. Quite far, as it turned out. “This and that. Nothing so interesting. Did some reading and now I’m trying to figure out a problem. Solution to a problem, really.”

“Some great Time Lord-fixing-the-universe-thing again?”

“Well… not really. A bit. Sort of. Feel up to a little trip?”

Rory blinked. “Now, Doctor?”

“Are you doing something else?”

“Sleeping, actually.”

“You aren’t right now.”

“But I was planning to go back to… oh, never mind.” Rory sighed. “Where did you have in mind? Should I wake Amy?”

“No,” the Doctor said, dropping the chair legs down with a thump, and jumping to his feet. “No need to wake her. I need you to do something for me. It’s just a little errand. I could do it myself, but…” he fixed Rory with a careful glance, “I think it’ll be better coming from you. And then you can go back to bed, and I’ll do the rest. Five minutes? I‘ve got a phone call to make before we go. Maybe you should put on a shirt. Oh, and shoes.”

He was sure it said something about either his powers of persuasion (or perhaps, Rory’s understanding that he would have no defences against the Doctor’s powers of persuasion), that five minutes later saw Rory dressed and stumbling out the TARDIS to knock on a door in New York.

“Are you sure, Doctor?” Rory had come back, holding a small paper bag. “This is what they gave me. This is you wanted picked up?”

“Yes, thanks!” He twitched it from Rory’s fingers, placing it gently next to the typewriter. “I hope you didn’t open it! Many thanks to you, Mr. Pond. You can go back to bed now. Stay away from Amy’s feet.”

Rory stared at him in disbelief. “You told me not to open it, so I didn’t. But aren’t you even going to tell me what’s in there?”

“No,” the Doctor said. “It’s not important for you to know; not now anyway.” 

“But one day?” Rory persisted.

The Doctor shrugged. “Maybe, one day. But thanks for your help.”

Rory stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. Then he shrugged and turned away to go back to bed, not asking another thing. And the Doctor didn’t mean to do it, really didn’t mean to do it. But he did, anyway. Maybe because it was Rory, and not Amy. Rory, who never really questioned, but followed along with a modicum of faith and large dose of sense.

“It belongs to a friend,” he blurted out in a rush. “She left it there by accident, and…well, I’m going to return it now. It’s not important for you to know what it is, but please believe me Rory… she’ll be very grateful that you picked it up for her.”

He was facing away from Rory as he said it, deliberately not turning in his direction. He sensed, rather than heard Rory’s silent acceptance of his admission; and he felt his gratitude that the Doctor had given him an answer, for this at least.

And then he waited for Rory to go back to bed, before he charted the TARDIS to a destination. He straightened his bowtie, fixed his cuffs, and smoothed his jacket down before grabbing the paper bag and walking out to meet someone.

“Miss Wallace,” he said, giving a small bow and flourishing the psychic paper in front of her face. “I’m the Doctor. I understand you’re a social worker?”

She looked at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” she answered, slowly. “I am. Just qualified, about to start with Children’s Services tomorrow. What can I do for you, Doctor…?”

Just the Doctor.” He gave her a wide smile, assessing her. She was young, very young this one. But competent. He could read the possibilities and capabilities of who she’d be within her eyes, the set of her shoulders, and the faint smile around her lips.

“I need you to do something for me,” he said, leaning over to her confidentially. “There’s a little girl… I think she will be one of yours, when you start working. Name is Melody. She’s had a rough time, so far; but when you first meet her, give her this.” And he handed her the paper bag.

She shook it, cautiously. Opened it up to glance inside, and then removed the contents.

“A teddy bear?”

“Trust me,” he said, turning to go. “She’ll love it.”


	5. May, 1984

He _loved_ that feeling.

That thrill of when he was very, very clever; or when he got something right and managed to survive, despite the odds. And being able to return River’s teddy bear filled him with that same little fission of happiness.

The thing was, he _knew_ that bear. He’d seen it before. She kept it tucked under her blanket at Stormcage, half hidden beneath her pillow. But he’d seen it, and asked her about it.

“Oh,” River had laughed, fingers ruffling over its rather threadbare head. “He’s just a memento.”

“Yours?” he’d asked. It was early into their relationship, and he had to admit that it amused him to think of the independent, gun-slinging, leaping-out-of-windows River Song, cuddled up to a battered teddy bear.

“Well,” she admitted, biting her lip. “He’s sort of an heirloom, by this point.”

And so he was. A treasured toy, loved by little Melody Pond and one of the only things she took with her when she fled Greystark Hall. The thing that Melody Lafayette missed that helped her maintain any semblance of childhood… and thanks to Mr. Pond and to himself, she had managed to get it back.

Oh, he loved it when he got things right.

He read every night, slowly absorbing information about the life of Melody Lafayette. She wrote about wandering the streets of New York, making friends with that enthusiastic, bustling city. Riding the subway by herself to stroll the boardwalk at Coney Island, and stuff herself with hot dogs from Nathan’s. Walking through Central Park, having imaginary conversations with the Alice in Wonderland statues, and making boats with leaves and matchsticks to float on the lake.

She wrote about the work in school that came easily to her; so easily that she alienated most of the friends she could have made, due to her extreme intelligence at such a young age. She made honor roll every semester, even with all her advanced level classes. She spent her sophomore year in high school studying Latin in an extracurricular college-level class, struggling for months with tenses and cases and vocabulary, to emerge with the highest grades of anyone in the school.

And he had to admit, he gave a loud chuckle when she won first place in a citywide science fair for a project on space travel and the planets.

He could see the elements of little Melody Pond emerging in Melody Lafayette. Her ability to survive. To find things to enjoy, despite the emptiness of her life.

Oh, he enjoyed reading about the details and the minutiae of what was making her into who she was. 

But he hated it when she wrote about her dreams.

_I hoped my bad dreams would go away in time,_ Melody wrote, purple circles curving and looping over the page. _That I would outgrow them. But they never do. And every morning when I wake up, my mind feels clouded and angry. This morning I was so furious, I kicked my books across the room for no reason._

_“What is your problem?” Ivy snapped. Ivy is one of my new roommates. She has short, bleached blond hair, and dark eyes. She sleeps wearing her mascara and eyeliner, and wakes up each morning looking like a raccoon. She smokes cigarettes and keeps a bottle of vodka in her book bag._

_She frightens me a bit, if I am being honest. I try to stay out of her way as much as I can. Actually, I try to stay out of all of their ways. Ivy is the worst one, but Leslie and Anita are also very scary. They have been my roommates for the last three months, which is the longest that I have ever been with the same people._

_Other mornings I might have said I was sorry, or that it was an accident. But this morning, I was still so angry my brain felt like it was on fire._

_“Am I bothering you?” I asked, glaring at her._

_Ivy blinked at me, in surprise._

_“Ooh, girls,” she said, “seems our little Melody has a voice after all.”_

_“Yeah,” I growled. “I have a voice. And it’s telling you to back off.”_

_Ivy laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It reminded me of Mean-Miss-One-Eye, which in turn made me even angrier. I have gone for years not thinking of her, of carefully putting her out of my mind. But this morning, this morning when I woke up so angry, it all came flooding back. Ivy’s smeared eyeliner made me think of an eye patch; her sneer of that silly smile that Mean-Miss-One-Eye would always have when she talked of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor and how I was meant to kill him._

_I took a step toward Ivy, my hands balled up in fists by my side. And then I punched her, right in the stomach._

_I have never hit anyone in my life. It was wrong. I know it was very wrong._

_But it felt really good._

_Ivy crumpled up onto the floor, clutching her stomach and moaning. Leslie and Anita stood frozen behind her, staring at me._

_“I said to back off,” I told her. Ivy blinked back tears, nodding._

_“You’ve a temper,” she muttered. “Mousy little thing like you.”_

_I ignored her, getting dressed and picking up my books. My anger was fading, and I was feeling a little ashamed. Why did I punch her? That wasn’t me. It was just that I felt so funny in the mornings, like my brain was full of hatred and it had to come out somehow._

_I opened my mouth to tell her I was sorry, but I never had a chance. Ivy was standing up, still tenderly patting her stomach, but walking over to me with a far friendlier smile than I’d ever seen her wear before._

_“Well, little Mouse,” she said, slinging her arm around my shoulder. “We’ve misjudged you. Thought you were just a little know-it-all, with all the good grades, and the studying._

_“But any girl that can throw a punch like that…” she laughed. “We want you on our side.”_

_And that was how I ended up with friends. For the first time ever, I had people who talked to me without shying away. We went out for pizza and Chinese food, and sat together in Washington Square Park after school. They introduced me to their other friends; tough guys who wore leather jackets, and girls in fishnets and combat boots. The sort of people that I had tried to avoid before, but who now talked and joked with me because of Ivy’s clear acceptance._

_“I’m glad you’ve made some friends,” Miss Wallace told me. She is my social worker now, and has been for the last six years. She has soft, dark skin the color of chocolate, and tight black curls that surround her face in a halo. She looks straight into my eyes when we talk -instead of looking anywhere but at me- and when she smiles she looks like an angel._

_But one of the things that made me like her, right from the start, was that when we first met her face lit up._

_“Melody? You’re Melody!”_

_I held myself stiffly, ready for her to act like all the other social workers do. They are all told about me, when they start. That I am difficult, and not like other children. That she should not worry about placing me in a new foster home, because it will never work._

_“I have something for you,” she said, reaching into her purse. “Someone asked me to deliver it to you, when we met.”_

_And then she pulled out my teddy bear._

_“My bear!” I cried, hugging him. “But I lost him!”_

_“Well,” she said, smiling and patting my arm. “You’ve got a good friend then. Nice young man, in a bowtie.”_

_I didn’t know any young men in bowties, but it didn’t matter. From that moment, I adored Miss Wallace._

_“Yes,” I told her. “Ivy, Leslie and Anita introduced me to all of them.”_

_Her face fell. “Oh, is that right?” She was no longer meeting my eyes, but fiddling with the clasp on her purse._

_“Melody,” she said slowly, “I’m glad that you have made some friends, but… just be careful. Those girls are…” her voice faded._

_“Those girls are not your type of people. They’ve had very difficult lives, and that makes them more prone to expose themselves to dangerous situations. Just don’t do anything that seems bad, alright? You’re a smart girl, Melody. You know right and wrong.”_

_Once upon a time, long ago when I was Melody Pond, I was told that I had nothing,, and that I would never have security or love or anything good. But now, I had friends! And I was determined to keep them, even if I didn‘t feel comfortable with everything they did._

_But taking a few sips of alcohol isn’t really wrong, is it? Very soon, my evenings were spent hanging out in the park, sharing a bottle around with my new friends. Sometimes, Anita and I would go to the big Woolworths on 34th street, to try on makeup and jewelry. And if, on occasion, we slipped lipstick or nail polish or earrings into our pockets when no one was looking… well, was that really so bad?_

_It’s not as though we did it all the time! Once a week. Maybe twice? Leslie was the one who taught me how to take clothing into dressing rooms at Gimbal’s and Alexander‘s, to bunch up shirts and jeans underneath my own clothing to sneak it out of the store. Ivy introduced me to the people she’d sell those things to, so we could afford more cheap vodka._

_Mean-Miss-One-Eye told me that I would always have nothing… but now I have fishnet stockings of my own, and a tight red dress that clings to my body and makes boys look at me with admiration. I have a small collection of cosmetics hidden under my bed, and a pair of gold hoop earrings that jingle when I move my head. And I have friends. I may not have a mother or father, but at least I have friends who love me._

_At least, I thought I did. Until the day that we were caught shoplifting at Macy’s, and my friends ran away and left me behind._

_“Melody,” Miss Wallace sighed. No smile on her face, today. No, today she is shaking her head, and looking at me with disappointment in her eyes. “I never thought I would be called to bail you out.”_

_“I’m sorry,” I said. “But it was just a shirt.”_

_“Just a shirt?” Miss Wallace looked shocked. “How much have you been stealing?”_

_“Ohh…” I felt a little flash of guilt in my stomach, at her expression. “Well…”_

_She sighed again. “You don’t have to say anything else. I cleared out your room at the Home, and found your stash under the bed.”_

_“You had no right to do that!” I yelled, blood rushing into my cheeks. “They’re my things!”_

_“Did you pay for them?”_

_“I could have!”_

_“But you didn’t. And yes, I had to. You’re not staying at that Home anymore, not with those girls.” She sighed again._

_“Melody, you are seventeen. Macy’s wanted to charge you and have you put in a juvenile detention facility. I had to do a lot of fast talking to get them to agree to drop the charges; but in exchange, you’ll need to do community service._

_“And,” she added, “the reason you aren’t staying at the Home anymore, is because I called in a few favors. I‘ve placed you in a foster home. It’s only a few months -I’m sorry it can’t be longer, but they’re moving shortly after you’re eighteen, anyway- and they’re wonderful people.”_

_I had been told that sort of thing, before, and I was getting tired of people not wanting me. No one ever did. Melody Pond ran away once, ran away to New York. Where should Melody Lafayette run to? Where was there to go?_

_In the end, it wasn’t how much I adored Miss Wallace, or that I couldn’t think of another plan for where to run away to that convinced me to at least meet the Thompsons. It was that I glanced into the bag. She’d made sure to put my teddy bear on the top._


	6. October, 1984

It was a sinking, sticky feeling in the pit of his stomach, but one he acknowledged as he understood what was making him feel so funny. Abruptly, the Doctor realized that he was seeing the start of it. The beginning of her recklessness; the violence; her uncanny ability at theft.

He was seeing the elements unfolding that would one day define how the world saw Mels.

And yet, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop sneaking into her room to keep reading. He was completely sprawled across River’s bed that night; bowtie loosened, braces and shoes off and black-socked feet restlessly kicking at the duvet. A plate of Jammie Dodgers by his side to nibble, a cup of tea on the nightstand.

_The Thompson family was in fact, what Miss Wallace had promised. In fact, they were considerably more, if only because they were her cousins._

_“They won’t want me,” I whispered to her after the first two days. “No one ever wants me, after a few weeks.”_

_She gave me a very sad smile, brushing her fingers over my cheek. “Melody, if I could have adopted you, I would have. I’m not sure why you feel that you don’t deserve love.”_

_Because I don’t, I responded in my mind. I was told, so long ago, that I will never have that. I thought I had cheated that, and had friends who cared about me. But I was wrong, and they didn’t. I had tried calling the Home when I arrived, only to find that Ivy, Leslie and Anita wouldn‘t talk to me. The girl who answered the phone told me that they were angry because I was a snitch, who got them in trouble with their social workers._

_Mean-Miss-One-Eye was right. I am destined to have nothing forever._

_“You’ll see,” I said, strong in my convictions. “They won’t want me.”_

_But I was wrong. They did. They were good, kind people who treated me well. They praised my achievements in college, and bragged about me to everyone in their building. Mrs. Thompson fussed over me, folding my laundry and shining my shoes every night. They both ignored my nightmares, only going so far as to bring me a glass of water when I woke up crying and to pat my shoulder when I tried to go back to sleep… and when Mr. Thompson realized that I started each day in a bad mood, he had me start running with him every morning. Step after step, my feet pounded the paths in Central Park. Perspiration beaded my forehead and raced down my back, the breeze ruffling my ponytail as I ran to escape those voices from my dreams that reminded me I‘m unwanted, unloved… and its all the fault of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor for being BAD and stealing what should have been mine; and that’s why he should die, should die, should die, should die…_

_And yet the running helped, a little. By the time we would come back home, flushed and sweaty, my head would be clear again, and I could ignore those voices for a little longer._

_Miss Wallace had arranged for me to do my community service at Bellevue Hospital, delivering water and juice to patients, handing out flowers and jello cups. I had expected something difficult, but it turned out to be easy work. Perhaps not always enjoyable, but easy enough to smile at the patients and staff, to make small talk and make them comfortable._

_And then, the nurses asked me to deliver flowers to the patient in room 46, and see if she needed anything._

_I was accustomed to the hospital rooms, by that point. There were usually one or two patients waiting for surgery, or quietly in recovery. Often they had family or friends with them, taking care of their needs, or bolstering failing spirits. In those past few weeks, I had found there was always some indication of what was wrong… but when I entered room 46 I found myself looking at one little girl in the room, all alone in a big bed. Her face lit up when she saw me._

_“Flowers!”_

_“I’ll just put them over here,” I said, cheerfully… but inside, I was a little appalled. Let alone having no roommate; why was no one here with her? No family, or friends? She may have been about seven; dark complected and skinny, with black hair in cornrows. Her eyes, large and dark, peered up at me curiously from out of a thin face._

_“Do you need anything?” I asked, feeling a little awkward. “Water?”_

_“No,” she answered. “I have some. But would you…” she looked up shyly, “help me with something though?” She pulled a large book out from beside her, flipping it open quickly._

_“I don’t know how to pronounce some of these words. Can you read with me for a little bit?”_

_I sat next to her, pulling the book closer to see. Fairy tales. She snuggled against my side as we read story after story: all about white wizards saving the townspeople and good magicians being clever._

_“Will you be in the hospital long?“ I asked, standing up to leave. I had been with her for at least an hour, and I still couldn’t tell why she was here, or what was wrong with her._

_“Oh,” the little girl said, calmly. Very calmly, considering her age. “I think so. I have a heart problem, and the doctors want to keep me monitored. My mom works during the day, that‘s why there‘s no one here with me. She’s a nurse.”_

_There was something about this little girl that made my stomach squirm, and my heart go out to her. I think it’s because, somehow, she reminded me of myself. All alone. But at least, she had a mother coming back for her in the evening._

_“I’m here every day,“ I told her, back to feeling a little awkward. “Do you want me to come read with you tomorrow?”_

_She nodded, smiling widely to show crooked front teeth._

_“Yes, please,” she said, slipping her hand into mine. “I like you.”_

_I can‘t think of when I‘ve ever heard someone say that to me. I blinked hard, fighting a funny, burning feeling in my eyes._

_“My name is Melody,” I told her, swallowing back a lump in my throat. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

_“I’m Alison,” she said, her hand still tiny and warm in mine. “I like your name.”_

_“And I like yours.”_

He lay the book down, taking a deep breath. Something about that rang a bell... And then suddenly he remembered.

It was shortly after the Library. The Library… the site of River’s sacrifice, back before he even understood who she was. After that, and after Donna left, as well as that awful business on Mars, he was at loose ends. He’d always viewed it that he roamed the Universe; but now it was different. Now it really felt like running away. 

And suddenly, River strolled in. Breezing into the TARDIS as though she belonged there, dressed in a long blue evening gown and startling high heels, sapphires glinting against her collarbone and threaded through her curls.

“Hello, sweetie,” she murmured, blowing him a kiss across the console. “Have I got an adventure for us…”

Surprise prompted him to lie, just a little, when she asked about diaries. (But really… if she knew him as well as she said, then she ought to know about rule #1.)

So he just nodded when she mentioned a few things, remarking that it was still early days for him. He didn’t miss the slight downturn of her lips, before she tossed out a casual smile.

“I’ve still got an adventure for us,” she said. “Put in these coordinates. I’m going to get changed.”

And then she disappeared, leaving him to punch in what she’d given him, and to wonder how in the world she even knew where the wardrobe was.

She reappeared moments later in an olive dress, jodhpurs and boots, carrying two mugs of tea.

“Thought you could use this,” she said, pushing one into his hands. Fragrant steam wafted up to his nose, and his fingertips tingled from the heat of the cup. 

“Ready?” she asked, standing by the TARDIS doors.

“Ready for what?” he responded, walking over. It was hard to make himself look straight at her. His last image of her, teary and determined, threatened to overwhelm how she looked now… bright eyed, curls waving around her face, and a smile hovering about her lips.

“This!” she said, flinging open the doors.

The TARDIS was drifting in open space, and before them was a sight he never tired of seeing. A galaxy was being born, right before them. Swirling gas and dust forming stars, spiralling and whirling off each other to fragment smaller and smaller.

River sat down, legs dangling out the doors, occasionally sipping her tea. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, he sank down beside her. Uncomfortable wasn’t really the right word. Discomfited. Disoriented.

And yet, as she gave him a smile and reached over to squeeze his hand… oddly content.

“I know how much you love this view,” she teased gently. 

“Nothing like it,” he answered, eyes lost on the sight before them. “A galaxy, brand new. Just starting out. No mistakes. Nothing to fix.”

She smiled at him, not needing to say anything, and they sat there, watching the universe unfold before them.

“Feeling better?” she asked, quietly.

“How did you know I was feeling…” his voice trailed off, and she gave a little laugh. Brushed soft fingers along his jaw, before cupping his cheek in her palm for a brief second to turn his face to hers.

“Oh, sweetie… I know you. And I know what that look in your eyes means.” A terrifying thought to him, at that time; that this woman he didn’t know could know him so well.

“But also…” she continued, dropping her hand back to her lap, “well, you told me. Mentioned a time you were very unhappy, wished someone was here. So I came to surprise you.

“Surprise...” Two huge star clusters crashed against each other, creating a shower of sparks and capturing back their attention.

His eyes were occupied, but his mind raced as he thought about her words. One day, she’d promised, he would know and trust River Song well. She’d already proven that with the soft whisper of a word in his ear; a name secret and long unspoken. But he didn’t want to know her… and he was afraid to trust, well, anyone. He didn’t want to, anymore. His friends, his companions, to say nothing of all the people he’d met and saved; in the end, they all left and he was left alone - always so alone. But as he sat with River, legs swinging out the TARDIS and occasionally commenting on fragment patterns, he realized something.

Maybe those times of the loneliness, the abject sadness and guilt that so often crept over him and made him feel every one of those 906 years… maybe they become just a little more bearable when you consider having someone willing to travel through time back to you, bearing a cup of tea and a few moments of companionship and peace.

No, he still didn’t want to know her. Didn’t want to trust her. But there were times, the Doctor admitted to himself as he sipped his tea and found an obscure comfort from that mystery of a woman sitting beside him… that despite all that, he just might like her quite a bit, already.

“What’s your favorite name,” he asked suddenly, wanting to do something for her. To thank her; not just for what she’d done in the Library, but for this. Coming to save him, yet again.

“Alison,” she responded promptly, not missing a beat.

“Alison?”

“Someone I knew, once,” she answered, taking a long swallow of tea. “Very special to me.”

“Then I dub thee,” he announced in a solemn voice, waving a hand toward the spectacle before them, “Galaxy Alison.”

She turned to him with shining eyes, warm with gratitude. And something unthawed within his hearts, and he found himself smiling at her.


	7. September, 1988

Amelia Pond was many things. She was fierce, and she was brave and she was kind. She was bold and impetuous, and she was stubborn and single-minded. 

She was also rather strangely perceptive. 

“Are you alright?” Amy asked, leaning over the railing to peer down at him. The Doctor was in his swinging hammock chair, half hidden underneath the console. He was -technically- doing repairs to the transdimensional vectors, and adding a new setting to the polymorphic circuit. In truth, he was procrastinating. Simultaneously waiting for the Ponds to go to bed, yet trying to avoid the pull of Melody’s diary. 

He felt a little guilty. More than a little, if he was honest with himself… which he usually tried not to be. But there are times, the Doctor thought, scuffing his toes on the floor and swishing the chair around a little more than necessary as he peered at the wires, that you must be a bit grown up and acknowledge what is wrong. 

He was the Doctor. He saved whole races, whole planets. He saved the human race, over and over again, all throughout time! And yet, he couldn’t save her. He could only read Melody’s diary each night, the words that she’d written all those years ago. 

_Now that I’m over eighteen, he’d read a few nights ago, I didn’t have to have weekly meetings with Miss Wallace. I still did, though; especially after the Thompsons moved back to North Carolina. She worried about me too much to not see me._

_“What are you doing with yourself?” she asked one week._

_“Work,” I told her. “Started a new job yesterday.”_

_“What is it this week?”_

_“Personal assistant to a travel agent. She makes me water her plants and take her cat to the vet.”_

_“Oh, Melody.” We were sitting to dinner in her cozy little apartment. I poked at my spaghetti as she frowned._

_“Why do you keep doing these things? What is it that you want to do?_

_The truth is that I don’t know what I want to do. I’m smart, people say. Every teacher, every person I interact with has said so. But what good are brains if you can’t decide in which direction to turn them? I’d already finished college easily; by studying on nights and summers and vacations, I’d left with a Masters degree in History, and a concentration in linguistics. But what to do afterwards… now that was the question._

_“You’re overqualified for the type of jobs you take! Why don’t you go back to school? You could get a doctorate, Melody. Teach in college afterwards.”_

_All my life -at least the life of Melody Lafayette- it seemed everyone had been suggesting that. Teacher or doctor. What if I didn’t want either?_

_So I do nothing. I survive. Work in what Miss Wallace considers dead end jobs. I sell **everything**. Burgers. Televisions and VCRs. Men‘s suits. Cars. And I’m good at those jobs; as good as you can be, with such things. I’m charming and personable -if you ignore the emptiness and desperation in my eyes- and able to convince people to buy anything. But nothing is a challenge, and soon I’m bored, and then I leave one job to start something new. _

No, the Doctor didn’t know how to save her from that. What was the magical thing to do or say, that would make Melody have a direction in life? The only thing worse than reading about her intelligence and abilities going to waste in fruitless jobs, was in reading about the hold her dreams had over her at night. 

_My dreams are worse, now that I live alone. There are men in black suits with faces designed to frighten and hands that terrify. In my dreams, I scream and try to get away from them… but I can’t remember what is so bad, or even what they look like when I awaken._

_And then, too, she is there. Mean-Miss-One-Eye, her face looming close to me._

_“Melody Pond,” she hisses, her voice loud in my ear. “Don’t you remember me? Have you forgotten all that we have taught you?”_

_Yes, I want to say. I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember her, or the Bad Space Man called the Doctor and how I am meant to kill him. I don’t want to remember Amelia Pond in far off Leadworth, or the Last Centurion, or even the life of Melody Pond. I don’t want to remember any of them; and yet they run through my mind with frightening immediacy when I close my eyes._

_In my dreams, I have a gun. The metal is cool beneath my fingers; both unfamiliar and recognizable. I fire it, to blast everything away. And then I wake up screaming, with my head full of foggy, half-remembered ideas and my limbs trembling._

_And then I go running._

_I run a lot, every morning. The peaceful habit imparted to me by Mr. Thompson is now done in desperation. I don’t know what I am trying to escape. That voice in my dreams, the voice of the past telling me that I am nothing. I have nothing. A tiny studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, a few blocks from Times Square. A hop, skip and a jump from the bad part of town. I keep my head down when I walk to the grocery, or to and from the subway._

_Yet it is nice enough little place, bare and uncluttered. I have a futon mattress on the floor, and a table rescued from the trash. I have clothes in the closet, and high heeled ankle boots, and black rubber bangle bracelets, and wildly shaped dangling earrings in florescent colors. I have the books I have collected from college over the years in haphazard stacks, and on top of the small flickering television sit Melody Pond’s pictures from long ago._

She deserved more than that. She always had. But he never knew what to do, the Doctor thought, aimlessly firing the sonic at the baseboard to watch lights flash. He couldn’t save her, couldn’t fix her. 

He’d promised that he would protect her. He’d promised he’d be there. He was the Doctor! The man who could avert wars with his cleverness, rescue crashing starships, rewrite time itself to spare whole generations misery! And now… now he could only read the diary of a lost child each night and know that however he interceded, the little things he managed to slip into her life… were they doing any good at all? 

“Doctor,” Amy said, waving a hand in his direction. “Earth to the Doctor.” 

He blinked at her from behind his goggles. He‘d forgotten she was even there, to be honest. 

“Sorry, Pond. I’m fine. I’m always fine.” 

“You seem a bit distracted.” 

“No, I told you; I’m fine. You know what I was thinking?” he asked suddenly, desperate to distract them both. 

“What?” 

“We should go to the beach! Sand, sun, water.” 

“Bikinis,” Amy said, her eyes lighting up. 

“Tried one once; didn’t suit me. Not enough coverage in the posterior region… well, you know.” He waved a hand in back of him, ears turning red as Amy laughed. He was sure she remembered that instance. He certainly did; as much as he’d like to forget that image. 

Amy smirked. “I don‘t think pink spandex with bows are really your thing, Doctor.” 

“They looked,” he said, trying for a little dignity, “like bowties.” 

“Bowties go around your neck, not at your hips. And they are still not cool.” 

He sniffed, swinging back and forth in his chair. “They are cool,” he muttered. 

Amy laughed again, pushing her hair back. Then she sighed. 

“It sounds great, but we can’t go now. Rory gave up and went to bed, when you started working under here. Plus, he wasn’t impressed by the last beach we visited.” 

The Doctor gave a little grumble. “Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes as he busily reconnected a few wires without paying attention to what he was doing. There was a small burst of smoke, and he coughed, waving his hand around. 

“It wasn’t!” he insisted. “I didn’t know that there was a general anesthesia in the water!” 

“Despite the signs that said ‘Don’t swim, water is anesthetized for medical purposes’?” 

He sighed, grumbled, and proceeded to ignore her. 

“Seriously, Doctor. What is wrong? Rory and I have both noticed something lately… Are you alright?” 

Was there anything he could say to Amy? How about: I’ve been sneaking into your daughter’s room for the last two months, to read the diary she kept throughout all the years from when I first failed to save her. I’ve been trying to influence her life for the better, made much worse by the fact that I can’t pinpoint her location because the perception filters are still on her. I can get close to where she is, but I can never just grab her… it’d be like trying to hold a shadow. She’s more lost now than she’s ever been, and I can’t figure out anything at all to do that could make any part of her life better…

No. Wait. Yes? 

It is very difficult to catapult yourself from a swinging chair without ending up on the ground. He did actually know that from past experience -it’s a bit lucky his TARDIS doesn‘t still have a voice, or she would laugh at him from all the times she‘s seen him dumped on the floor from attempting that very manuever- and yet every time he has a brilliant idea: up he hops without thinking of the consequence. 

“Wait here,” he said, excitement clear in his voice as he scrambled off the floor. “I’ve just thought of something we can do.” 

He went rushing off to a storage room before she could say a word, banging his head on a shelf as he rummaged frantically. Talking to himself as he threw items into a box, debated feasibility of certain toys. 

“There’s a friend I’d like to visit,” he said, coming back into the console room. “Want to come?” 

Amy’s eyes lit up. “A friend?” she asked, in an arch voice. “Does River know about this friend?”

“I don’t need River’s permission to visit friends.” 

Amy raised an eyebrow. 

“Anyway, she’s not that sort of friend. You’ll see,” he promised, flinging levers, twisting around the console and pressing buttons at random. 

“What are we doing here?” Amy asked, voice in a hush as they walked through the halls of the hospital a few minutes later. His fingers were nervously twitching at his side, a little apprehensive at what they were about to do. Amy was clutching the box, complaining loudly about the weight. 

“What do you have in here, anyway?” she asked, resting it between the wall and her hip. “Space bricks, or something?” 

“Space bricks!” he scoffed, twirling around. “Of course not; no such thing. They’re books!” 

“Books.” 

“My favorite books, from when I was a child.” 

“Old books, then. Very old books.” Amy’s face twisted a little, glancing down at the box.

“Don’t sound like that,” the Doctor said. “Didn’t you read as a child?” 

“No,” Amy said, following him toward a room. “I played Raggedy Doctor.” 

He paused on the doorstep. “What about Mels,” he asked, in a slightly strangled voice. “Did she read?” 

Amy frowned. “I guess. For school, anyway, when she bothered to do the work.” 

He pushed open the door, one finger on his lips as it swung open noiselessly to show a little girl sitting in a big hospital bed. She was about ten, Amy judged. Thin face, with tiny black braids emphasizing the shape of her narrow skull. Big dark eyes, opening wide at the two strangers. 

“Hello,” she called out, dubiously. 

“Hello,” he said, smiling. “I’m the Doctor.” 

“You would have to be,” the girl said. “You’re all doctors, in here. Is she a nurse?” 

“No,” the Doctor interjected, quickly. “She’s my friend. 

“Now,” he said, pulling out his sonic. “Let’s see how you’re doing!” He scanned her quickly. Bit run down, not too bad. Blood a bit funny. Something wrong with her heart. The problem, he reflected, with having only one heart is that when it wears out, you don’t have a backup. 

“Are you going to draw more blood?” the child asked, biting her lip. 

“No,” he answered, sitting by her bedside. Amy had already taken the time to collapse into a chair, rubbing her arms. 

“I just came to check on you,” he lied, reassuringly. “See how you’re doing.” 

“Am I doing ok?” she asked. “Can I go home soon?” 

“Ooh… well.” Rule one: the Doctor lies. And yet, lying to adults, lying to authorities was always different than lying directly into a child’s face. She was never going home. Not fully healthy, at any rate. The technology hadn’t been invented yet, that could save her. 

“We’ve brought something for you,” Amy said, suddenly. “Right, Doctor?” 

“Yes!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Amy! Bring the box here.” 

He watched as she opened it, face lighting up at the books inside. 

“I love to read,” the little girl told him. “But I’ve never seen these books before.” 

“They were his,” Amy said. “He’s from very far away, and the books are too.” 

“There are toys also,” he said, pulling out small figures. “From the books; see? You can act out the stories… if you want to.” 

“I do,” she breathed. Thin fingers traced over the corners of pages, over the rounded edges of the tiny toy feet and limbs. “Thank you, Doctor. And Amy.” 

“We’ve got to go now,” the Doctor said, tugging Amy to her feet. “But enjoy all of that, alright?” 

He was rewarded by a smile breaking over her face, the excitement in her eyes as he closed the door, hustling Amy back to the TARDIS. 

“Who was that?” she asked, frowning at him from across the console. 

“I told you; a friend.” 

“But she hadn’t met you.” 

“She’s a mutual friend,” he said, eyes fixed on the time column. “I know someone she knows, but she doesn’t know me… it’s complicated.” 

“Surprise, surprise,” Amy said, shaking her head. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Night, Pond,” he called, watching her as she retreated up the stairs toward her bedroom. 

And then, he spun around toward River’s bedroom. Flinging himself onto the bed, curious to know what the next page held. If it would hold any mention of his little visit… oh, please, let it hold some mention of it. He didn’t pray, really. But if there was ever a time, it would be now, as he read avidly, eyes tracing over the purple circles inked on the page. 

_I have long since finished community service, but I still see Alison. I have met her family as well; her older sister, doggedly working through high school, and her mother, careworn and soft-spoken. They are good people, and I like them well enough. But Alison is different. Alison, in her quiet moments, reminds me of myself. Alison, surrounded by her family reminds me of what I should have had. And I care about her all the more, because of that._

_In the days when she is well, and back at home, I take her to the museum, and the park. There is no running when I’m with her. There are quiet walks, never at a rate more than her laboring heart can take. There are talks and jokes that make us smile together. There are movies, and pizza, and laughter that makes me feel like I have found a home, even if it is only for an hour or two at a time._

_In the days when she is ill, I visit her in the hospital. I bring her water and candy, tiny toys to keep by her bedside. The talks are quieter and briefer, but there are still jokes and laughter. And then, there are books. We share the bond of reading, the love of the printed word._

_We read everything. Classics. History. Biographies. But she loves science fiction and fairy tales; fantasy of every type. I have ransacked the shelves at the Donnell and Mid-Manhattan libraries to bring her anything that might hold her interest, and we have read nearly every book there._

_She is getting worse lately. Weaker. We are all trying not to say anything to alarm her, but I think she knows it. I try to distract her, to amuse her when I visit, but I’m afraid it is not working very well. There is a certain look in her eyes, these days -even with the joking and laughter- when she presses her hand to her chest and takes slow breaths, as though she knows her time is going to be cut short._

_But I show up today at the hospital to find her sitting with shining eyes, heaps of things thrown over her lap. Books, and toys of every strange description._

_“Melody!” she cried out, holding up her arms for me to hug her. “I’ve got some stories for us to read!”_

_“Professor Grootlemutter’s Book of Cautionary Tales? The Three Little Sontarans? Visiting with my Great -Grandmother: a story of Time Travel?_

_“What are these?” I ask her. “Where did you get them?”_

_“The new doctor brought them,” she answered, eyes rapt on the treasures before her. “He’s very funny looking, and he dresses strangely. No lab coat; just a jacket with elbow patches. And his friend was with him; a woman with long red hair. I think her name is Amy.”_

_I pushed the books to one side, sitting on the bed beside her. Alison obediently curled up against me, all angles and sharp bones as she leaned her head onto my shoulder._

_“Once upon a time,” I read aloud, “there were three naughty Sontarans.”_

_I didn’t know what a Sontaran is, or who this doctor and his friend are who brought her such strange books. But I’m grateful, that for now Alison is happy and interested in the story and sitting as a snug, warm weight by my side as I read aloud to her for hours._


	8. March, 1996

So he’d managed something after all. Clever Doctor. Giving books to cheer up Alison, which in turn appealed and strengthened Melody’s tenuous link with humanity and empathy. Clever, clever Doctor; always finding a loophole. 

But in truth, he’d grown to love Alison. Getting to know her through Melody’s eyes, he’d applauded her humor, her bravery, and her strength… to say nothing of her calm and optimism, even as her body began to fail her. 

Oh, the Doctor wished he could save her. But there are times, many times, that even with all he can do… he can do nothing at all. 

_Alison isn’t doing well,_ Melody wrote. _Each day, she is weaker. Frailer. Her breaths come quicker than they used to, and her voice is softer. When I visit the hospital, we keep reading through the books given to her by the unknown doctor and his friend. Truly, they are some of the strangest books I have ever read; all about time travel and alien races wreaking war on each other. But she loves them, and I read and read to keep her happy._

_But she‘s not happy all the time. She looked at me one afternoon, her eyes troubled._

_“I’ve never seen that doctor again,“ Alison mused._

_“Doctor who?” I asked absently, carefully sliding a bookmark between the pages to hold our place. Wherever these books had come from, they were extremely old and I tried to keep in good condition. Honestly, some of them even looked like they’d been handwritten by scribes on thick, cream colored paper._

_Alison pulled the blanket up beneath her chin, and I tried to keep the worry from my eyes. It had been a bad day for her. There were moments when she smiled and looked normal; but those times were few and far between. When she was serious, her face was near-skeletal: eyes dull, cheeks sunken and skin stretched taut._

_“The doctor with the books. Can you believe these stories? They’re so funny!”_

_“Growing Up With My Parents,“ I read aloud, from the title of the book we’d just started. “The latest in Steven Stottleberg’s saga on time travel through the ages.”_

_“Just imagine that, growing up with your own parents!“ Alison giggled softly, then gave me a curious look._

_“Can I ask you something, Melody? Something serious.”_

_“Of course,” I said. “Anything.” I regretted that last word the second it left my lips. It would kill me to have to tell her the truth, if she asked about the state of her health._

_“Why don’t you have a family?”_

_“I have you,” I told her, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “You’re all the family I need.”_

_“No,” she said, peering up at me. “I mean a real family. A mom and dad.”_

_What to say to that? “Once upon a time,” I murmured, not looking at her, “there was a little girl named Melody. She was born at a place called Demon’s Run, to Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion. She was raised to be a weapon, and she was raised to be the hope of the world. And then she ran away.”_

_Alison looked upat me, confusion written all over her face._

_“That sounds like a story,“ she said. “I don’t understand. What does all that mean?”_

_“It means…” I sighed. “It means that I don’t have a family. I’ve never had a family. I never will.”_

_“But who are Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion? Where are they?”_

_Where are they, indeed? Are they in far-off Leadworth? Or are they traveling with the Bad Space Man called the Doctor, forever fleeing responsibility and sharing their love only with him?_

_“England,” I told her finally. “They live in England.”_

_“England isn’t so far away,” Alison said, settling down to take a nap. “Can’t you go visit them?”_

_Once upon a time, Melody Pond had tried to sneak onto a ship and get to England; without money or any sort of a plan. But I am Melody Lafayette. I am not a scared, sick child alone in an unfamiliar New York. I am an adult, and have a job, and could save the money to buy a plane ticket. And, I can come up with a plan._

_And this was my plan: I spent hours in the library, looking up the address of Amelia Pond. A crazy plan, searching for an address in rural England, from New York City. But it was still a plan._

_Maybe, I thought excitedly, eyes wide as I stared at the pages zipping past on the microfilm machine, I could write her a letter. What to say? Time enough to decide, once I found her._

_But there was no Amelia Pond listed in Leadworth. There were no Ponds listed in Leadworth, at all._

_So I began to search everything. Marriage records. Divorces. Birth announcements. And still nothing._

_I gave up after that. Defeated, yet again, in the pursuit of family. I don’t know why I expected something different. The chanting in my brain, rooted by Mean-Miss-One-Eye and flowered by the realities of life started again: Melody Lafayette, like Melody Pond, is not meant to have love, or family, or anything real and worthwhile._

_The doctors have warned us that Alison can go at any moment. Her sister and mother cling to each other, tears streaming down their faces. But I stand by myself, dry eyed and empty. Anger -not blood- zips through my veins, pumping my heart. Anger that Alison has to die. Anger that when she goes, I will be alone._

_I think that is the worst thought of all._

_“You should go to England,” Alison told me, on the last time I saw her alive. Of course, when I showed up at the hospital I didn’t know that would be the last time. I think that despite warnings when dealing with the terminally ill, you never really **know**. Death, even when expected, is always a surprise and shock to the system of those left behind._

_“I don’t know where to go,” I said. “I looked them up, but… well, I can’t find them. I can’t find an address.”_

_“But if you go there,” she insisted, her voice a thin whisper as her fingers clutched mine, “then it would be easier to look them up. Maybe people will know them and know where they moved to.”_

_Once upon a time, maybes gave hope to Melody Pond. I don’t know if I still have the ability to be moved by maybes._

_“I don’t know--” I began, but Alison’s fingers squeezed mine._

_“You have to,” she said. “Because you need someone, Melody. Inside your eyes is so sad, and so old. The only time you look happy is when we talk, and read. But what is going to happen when I’m gone?_

_“Promise? Promise me that you’ll try to find them?”_

_And I promised; because, what else should I have done? I loved her. Except for Miss Wallace, she may have been the only person in the world that I loved. And one of the only ones who had ever loved me back. So I promised. I laid my hand on my heart, and promised with every fiber of my being that I would go to England to find Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion… even though I still wasn’t sure I wanted to._

_She was alone when she died, later that night. In my head, I imagine what happened. The steady tone of the machine replacing the slow beeping of her heart. The flash of silver, as they applied paddles, hoping to save her. But it is far more likely that Alison slipped out of this world the way she lived in it. Sweetly. Quietly, with a smile on her face._

_I packed up the books at the hospital the next day; feeling that my body was moving and breathing, lifting books and toys into the box, but it wasn’t really me. I felt like the memory of a person trapped inside a shell, going through the motions of being alive._

_I don’t cry. Not ever. Melody Pond used to cry; but Melody Lafayette is made of sterner stuff than that. But at that moment, my hand on ‘Growing Up With My Parents‘, the book we never finished reading, my eyes pricked with tears._

_A hand on my arm made me jump._

_“Melody? Are you alright?”_

_I knew this man. I’d seen him before. One of Alison’s doctors: tall and thin, with a shock of light brown hair and foolish expression. Doctor Smith, the cardiologist with the kind smile, and a never-ending supply of peppermints in the pocket of his lab coat. But in my head, the word doctor suddenly translated to the shadowy figure of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor. The Doctor, who stole my mom and dad, and all the love which should have been mine._

_And here was Doctor Smith, looking at me with concern in his eyes. Just another doctor who had disappointed me, stolen love from me… and hadn’t even managed to save Alison._

_“Leave me alone!” I cried, wrenching my arm away. The concern and worry etched deeper in his eyes as I blinked furiously, running out of the room with the box of books beneath my arm._

_If I hadn’t been distracted, if I hadn’t been angrily blinking away tears through that long walk from the subway to my apartment, I might not have been surprised when a man stepped out of the parking lot next to my house. But I was distracted; and so he caught me off-guard._

_“Gimme your money,” he snarled, voice gruff and menacing._

_“I don’t have any money,” I said. And I didn’t; the only things in my pocket were crumpled tissues, scraps torn from orange bus transfers and a lone subway token._

_“Give me the box, then.”_

_Every child growing up in New York knows that if someone is trying to mug you, you hand over your money and valuables without a question. The most important thing is getting away, without getting hurt._

_But I forgot that, as I stood there. My face turned red, then white with fury. My knees trembled. My hands, holding the box, shook. My heartbeat was so loud that I thought the mugger must be able to hear it as well._

_“I won’t!” I screamed suddenly, as I threw myself at him. Kicking. Biting. Scratching. The anger that I felt over Alison’s death came out as I fought him. The anger that I still felt every morning, after those bad dreams, that I would run to escape. The anger about my mother shooting me, about not having a home, about the Bad Space Man stealing the love that belonged to me… it all came out as I punched and kicked and screamed obscenities like I never had before._

_“You crazy, girl!” I had him forced up against the side of the building, as I advanced on him._

_“Yes,” I growled, taking a perverse glee in watching him cower. “I am. You still want the box?”_

_His eyes widened, by whatever he saw in mine. Reality snapping. Rage, beyond reason. He ducked beneath my arms and ran away._

_Back in my apartment, I felt strange. My head was singing. Dizzy, I wandered around the room, aimlessly picking things up and putting them down in the wrong places. My fingertips tingled, and my heart was beating so fast, it felt as though there was not one but two in there: thump thump thump thump. Thump thump thump thump._

_Something was happening… something that felt so oddly familiar, and so frightening all at the same time._

The Doctor stopped reading. The purple circles were growing more agitated, the pen leaving deep imprints in the page. And he knew, absolutely knew without a doubt what was happening to her. 

Regeneration. 

The most common way to regenerate was when your body wore out, through old age or trauma. But… it was possible (though rare) for extreme emotion or desire to start the process. Romana -his friend, companion, long-lost Time Lady- had managed it before, simply by wishing for a change. He’d never really understood her explanation; hadn’t cared to, to be honest. But he knew enough about the process to understand that Melody’s anger, her feeling of having nothing left to lose, was the spark in this case. 

She was regenerating… and if the timing was correct, this would be her regeneration in Mels. 

Which meant, he had some plans of his own to make. Some phone calls, searching for just the right people Amy had described. A little trip to a bank, borrowing some money. (Well, he called it borrowing. That word sounded better than stealing.) A quick pop in the TARDIS to the JFK airport, to charm the girl at the British Airways desk into a first class ticket for the next available flight. And then finally, a call to ask Miss Wallace to meet him. 

Melody’s social worker was older now, with a few strands of white gleaming among her black curls, and lines around her eyes. But the promise of her youth had been fulfilled; he could see her gentle empathy, the steady affection that succored the troubled children of New York. And she remembered him, that was clear from her smile. 

“It’s the Doctor, isn’t it? A long time ago, you gave me a teddy bear to give to Melody!” 

“That’s right!” he said, smiling charmingly at her. Smiling as though time was no concern, as though upstairs Melody was not on the brink of flying apart. 

“May I ask for your help, one more time?” 

“For Melody?” 

“Yes.” 

He had the feeling she’d do anything for her. Even agree to a request such as this. 

“She’s sick; but you want me to put her on a plane to England?” Even though she’d pocketed the ticket, agreeing to get her packed within the hour and to the airport, she was still giving him a quizzical look. 

“She… well, she has… family. There in England. She’ll be better, “ he thought, he hoped anyway, “by the time she gets there. The family; they’re expecting her and will meet her at the airport. I’ve written her a note to explain… it’s with the ticket.” 

“Melody has a family, after all.“ A smile lit her face, turning it soft and angelic. “I’m glad. She’s always been so alone. 

“Alright, then. I’ll get her ready. But don’t you want to give this to her?” 

“No, no; far better coming from you,” he said. “And thank you.” 

“No thanks necessary,” she answered, turning away toward Melody’s building. 

He waited a few minutes, but there was nothing to see. He knew what would happen, anyway. Amy had told him one night, long ago. 

“Mels had parents,” she’d said, out of nowhere. 

The Doctor’s hand stilled from where he was about to punch in coordinates for Densin; a peaceful planet with purple grass, aqua trees, and orange skies. It tended to make one go a bit colorblind after awhile; but after Berlin, it seemed like a great place to distract the Ponds. 

“She had parents?” he prompted. Amy was sagged down on the staircase, looking anywhere but at him. 

“She did. The Zuckers. Her dad was my first psychiatrist… I met Mels there, when I stormed out of a session. She laughed when I told her I bit him. Said she’d always wanted to do that, herself. 

“She was adopted… said her parents had wanted to adopt a foreign child. They suddenly got a phone call that a little girl was coming in from New York, and they should get to the airport to pick her up. They were surprised; they’d expected a child from China, or Russia. But they went to get her anyway.” 

So he knew what was going to happen, when she got to Leadworth. But that wasn’t what he’d written on the note, the one she’d find wrapped around her ticket. 

No, that note had a photocopy of the birth announcement of Amelia Pond, born in Scotland in 1989. Beneath it, he’d simply written: ‘Be patient.’


	9. May, 1996

Later, when the adrenaline had died down and his hearts were beating at a normal rate, he had a moment to cringe at what he’d written to her. ‘Be patient.’ Be _patient _! Was there nothing else he could have written?!__

But in truth, what could he have said? She’d already looked up Amelia Pond in Leadworth, and found nothing… found nothing, because, there was nothing to find. The Ponds had moved when Amelia was seven, and Melody had been searching at least a year before that.

In trying to decide what to scribble on the birth announcement, he’d vaguely thought about telling her that she’d be loved after all. That her parents had wanted her, and it was just one of those timey-wimey things and would make sense later on. But would that have really made anything better? No. So far better to simply give her a little hope.

Be patient, indeed. Fine advice, coming from a man who rarely followed that himself.

The Ponds had requested an early night; an adventure-free, peaceful night to get some sleep. He’d put up a little fuss for appearance’s sake, offering some possible excursion ideas.

“We’re a bit tired, Doctor,” Amy said, giving a huge, fake yawn and entwining her fingers with Rory‘s. “Just fancy a good long kip, tonight. You don’t mind, do you?”

Did he mind? Well, not really. Especially not if they would take their furtive glances and giggles to their room with them, so he wouldn’t have to see all… that. Cheeks a little pink, he kept his back turned to give them some privacy and ignored the Ponds kissing before they disappeared from view.

Honestly, he didn’t especially mind. Not if it gave him the chance to do a little more reading.

em>Oh, the Doctor thought, as he flipped to the next page in her diary. No more of the delicate purple writing he’d grown accustomed to. She wrote in black ink, now. Her writing was confident, the circles quick and bold against the paper.

_My name is Melody Zucker. I was born as Melody Pond, in a place called Demon’s Run; which can not be found on any map in the world that I know. I lived for eight years in Florida, at the Greystark Hall Orphanage until I ran away. For twenty-six years, I lived in New York City, in many different homes, and working in many different jobs, until one night I got angry and an old friend gave me a chance to change my life._

_And now I live in England._

_Those last few hours of the me that I was as Melody Lafayette are a blur. I remember the pain of Alison’s death. I remember Doctor Smith, no doubt wanting to comfort me but my irrational anger making me run from him. I remember the rage coursing through my system, as I screamed and assaulted a mugger who tried to take advantage of me. And I remember Miss Wallace, at the end. Making me hot chocolate, forcing me to sit still as she packed my belongings and took me to the airport in a taxi._

_“No clothes,” she told me, placing her fingers over mine. “I was told not to send any clothes with you; that you’d get new things when you arrive. There wasn’t a lot left, so you’ve just got a backpack as carry-on. But I put in all those photos and that sketchbook you always walk around with.”_

_“And my bear?” I managed to ask, through clenched teeth._

_Her fingers squeezed mine. Her hand was shockingly cold; or maybe mine was just overly warm._

_“And of course, your bear. “_

_She left me at the gate, hugging me and whispering to keep in touch, murmuring about the good friend that I had in that doctor, and wishing me luck with my family. I didn’t understand half the things she said, or why Doctor Smith would have contacted her; but I hugged her anyway, before I found myself sitting on the plane. I don‘t remember the flight. I simply sat in a daze: my vision fading in and out, the air singing in my ears, my whole body thrumming with nervous energy. I didn’t come alive again until we landed hours later, and I found the note in my pocket._

_The note. It had been wrapped around my ticket, but I hadn’t read it until now._

_The paper was crisp and white beneath my fingers as I unfolded it. I couldn’t understand what I was looking at, at first. A copy of a birth announcement?_

_Amelia Pond, born to Augustus and Tabetha. Born in Scotland, in 1989. ‘Be patient’ is scribbled at the bottom of the page, in slanted blue writing._

_Impossible. Amelia Pond could not have been born in 1989. Amelia Pond shot me in an abandoned warehouse, long ago when I was Melody Pond. Amelia Pond screamed and melted before my eyes, back at Greystark Hall in 1969._

_My brain stopped processing information, and the paper fell from my fingers to the floor of the bathroom I‘d ducked into. The humming in my ears grew louder and louder, my heart thudded, and I could see flashes of gold whirling around me every time I turned my head._

_I don’t know quite what all this means, except that time no longer makes sense and my life makes no sense and I am so tired of this and so angry, so angry, so angry, so **angry**!_

_I am so tired and angry of my life not making sense._

_And that was my last thought, as something burst inside my mind. That bound, frenetic energy that had been building suddenly leapt and ricocheted within my body. My head snapped back -arms open wide- as my eyes screwed up in pain and my mouth opened in a wordless shout._

_I’ve done this before, I thought in the lucid part of my mind that was still **me**. Melody Pond had done this before, alone in an alleyway in New York. Melody Pond became Melody Lafayette… and now who should she become?_

_The people I’ve loved… oh, the people I’ve loved and the only people who loved me. Miss Wallace is in my mind now. Alison. I wish I had pictures of them. But for now it is alright; their faces are in my head, and I take comfort from them, and…_

_Oh._

_The pain was gone. I felt… alive. Alive, for the first time in so long. Shiny new and awake and so… alive!_

_“My clothes are too big.” They are the first words that came to my lips, and as I uttered them aloud, I clapped a hand to my mouth in surprise. My voice was different. Young. Lisping. My face felt different beneath my hand. Round cheeks, pointed chin. My teeth were different; small and uneven when I ran my tongue over them, feeling the jagged edges and gaps where some were missing. My hair didn’t flow down my shoulders anymore, smooth and shapeless and blond. I put my hands up to my head, feeling my fingers sink into a halo of hair, thick and full. And the final, crowning glory… when I looked into the mirror, the unfamiliar face staring back out looked about seven years old._

_I reeled backwards, fingers pinching and patting down my new face, new body. My mind was racing, questions swimming to the forefront. How… how? How had this happened? Why here? Why now?_

_Rational thought intervened, slowly. Regardless of whatever changes I‘d suddenly had, I knew I couldn’t stay in the airport, and certainly not looking like this! A child in completely unsuitably adult clothing, hiding in an English bathroom. My brain felt like it was moving quickly, but my body was having trouble keeping up. My fingers fumbled as I set about to making myself look presentable._

_Flared jeans were never meant to cuff, I thought grimly as I rolled them up regardless, making about ten folds before my feet emerged. A tattered scrunchie found in the bottom of my bag was yanked through a few belt loops, managed to hold the jeans up to my much narrower waist. I threw out the unnecessary bra, realizing that it was completely impractical for what I looked like now._

_I glanced down at myself, surveying what else remained to be done. My shirt fit like a dress, flapping ridiculously around me in massive swatches of purple fabric. I stuffed tissue into the toes of my shoes, to fix the fact that they were now monstrously big. It worked, a little. If I walked slowly, then I wouldn’t trip. When I pulled my backpack up on my shoulders, it had become inexplicably heavy, and banged against the back of my knees as I walked toward the arrivals gate._

_“Melody? Are you Melody?”_

_In a matter of seconds, I had been swooped upon by a man and woman, who clasped my hands in theirs, surveying my face and ill-fitting clothes, beaming down at me._

_“We’re your parents, Melody! We’ve come to fetch you.”_

_“Oh, look at her,” the woman cried in a loud voice, her hand beneath my chin to force my gaze upward. “Isn’t she a little sweetheart?”_

_“She’s darling,” the man agreed. “Just darling!”_

_Before I could say anything, before I could even think of saying anything, I was hustled into a car. Driving on the wrong side of the road made me constantly flinch through the long ride from Gloucester, and I couldn’t look at the road before us. Instead, I turned my head right and left, looking out the windows at the green fields stretching past underneath rolling grey skies._

_“I’m Janet Zucker,” the woman told me, back at the house… our house. A pin-neat little abode, with pale cushions on a paler sofa, creamy wallpaper and pristine beige carpeting._

_“I’m your mother!” Janet said, sinking down to my eye level. “And this is Jamie Zucker. Your dad!”_

_I managed to keep a smile on my face. I don’t know who in the world Janet and Jamie Zucker are, but they are not my parents._

_But it seems, as the days pass, that they are. I’m unclear as to how things progressed when I left New York. All I can put together is that the Zuckers have wanted to adopt a child for a long time… they considered it a civil duty and a privilege to open their home to a needy child from overseas. They’d thought I would come from China, or Russia, or some impoverished nation somewhere. But when they received a phone call to be ready for a little girl named Melody arriving from New York… well, they couldn’t have been happier. At least, I spoke English and had decent table manners._

_It was impossible to dislike them. They were well-intentioned, and everlastingly cheerful. In those angry moments waking from troubled dreams, or as I chafed under their rules, I might have wanted to call them idiots. But they were like the birds that flocked and sang outside my window each morning. Bright, happy, harmless, and devoid of serious thought._

_Janet, despite being a renowned nutritionist was a hippie at heart. I saw traces of the 1960s about her; from her long blond hair, to her fluttery dresses around a thin figure, and her love-all personality. She explained her work to me, explained how they maintained a vegan household. She promised, with wide blue eyes and an enthusiastic smile, that I too would learn to eat to celebrate my body and the joy of being healthy._

_It wasn’t that I’d never thought about food and health concerns. It was just that I’d never worried about them… but I soon began to. No cookies, in my new home. Cakes, to celebrate special occasions had orange and green flecks of carrot and spinach festooning their insides, and a thin layer of homemade jam on top. In the moments I had by myself, I began to dream of devouring chocolate frosting straight from a can, of mountains of candy and entire pints of ice cream. I dreamed of hamburgers, steamy hot with cold ketchup and crisp brown buns. But I crunched through previously unidentifiable raw vegetables and squished my teeth through tofu, not saying a word. It wasn’t worth saying anything. Janet meant well._

_Small, round Jamie, with his paunch and receding hairline, was a child psychiatrist. He kept an office in the back of our house, with an entrance to and fro going through a door in the hedges. But for a man who made a living at working with children with problems, he was remarkable at ignoring mine._

_“All children have nightmares,” he whispered to Janet, when I woke up screaming the first night. “Nothing to worry about.” He launched into a monologue of psycho-babble about what part of your mind dreams come from, and how nightmares highlight the internal fear and trauma of your life. He reiterated often that he and Janet must simply understand, and be patient with me coming to terms with my troubled past as it expressed itself in my sleeping state._

_I stopped listening after the first few sentences. (I think Janet did too, if the glazed look in her eyes was any indication.) Tucked back in bed with my old teddy bear beneath my arm, I let him drone on and on, his words became meaningless sound until I fell asleep again._

_Yet there was nothing wrong with Jamie, either. He taught me to garden, caring for the vegetables and herbs they grew in the back of the house. He made jokes, ones that weren’t very funny, to see me smile. And he was kind and patient, even if he didn’t know how to make me trust him._

_No, there was nothing wrong with either of them. Indeed, this is the home Melody Lafayette would have been happy in. A family who exulted in having a child in their midst to take care of, and blissfully ignored her little flaws. She would have loved the calm of the green outdoors, the simple bedroom filled with only natural, organic toys. She would have grown and flowered here, into something more worthwhile than what she was._

_But for Melody Zucker, this is not the right place. I wasn’t unhappy; not exactly. But something in my soul missed the bustle of New York, more than I would ever have thought before. The flood of people and events unfolding in front of me. The frantic go-go-go of the subways and the taxis and the noise and the mess and the smell and the excitement of it all._

_And the food. Especially the food._

_I had stuffed that note back into my pocket at the airport, and I pulled it out every night to read. Amelia Pond, born in Scotland, 1989. The words still made no sense. I read them out of order, as if, like a puzzle they’d eventually reveal their meaning. Scotland. 1989. Amelia Pond. 1989. Scotland. Amelia Pond. And at the end: ‘Be Patient’._

_It was May, 1996. I had been living with the Zuckers for five months already. And I was tired of grey skies that never seemed to lighten to blue. I was tired of funny accents in my ears, turning the name Me-lo-dy that I’d always known, to Mel-dy, completely cutting out the middle ‘o’. I was tired of the bad dreams that still came to haunt me every night. I was tired of tofu and tempeh. I was tired of Year Two classes with the seven year olds, dressed in white polo shirt, black slacks and itchy red sweater. How many times can I pretend to learn to read, and do basic addition and subtraction? School bored me, and I didn’t care to concentrate on any of it. Easy enough to pluck answers from the air, when they asked me questions._

_I was tired of being patient. Patient for what? What was I waiting for?_

_I was sitting in the garden, running my fingers through the grass aimlessly, when one of Jamie’s clients threw open the doors and barrelled out. The sound of shouting followed her, before the door slammed shut. She hunched over, panting, before straightening up and casting a defiant look behind her._

_A little girl; red haired and round cheeked. I’d seen her before at school. I thought she was new, but she was in the other Year Two class so I’d never spoken to her._

_“How can I get out of here?” she called out to me, seeing me watching her. “I just want to go home, before that man comes out here!”_

_“You mean Jamie,” I said, beckoning her over. “He’s my… dad.” What a strange word. My father had always been the Last Centurion; standing straight and tall and impossibly strong in Roman armor. And now my dad was a kindly, balding plump man from England._

_“Yeah,” she said, hurrying over. “I think he’ll be mad at me, and I want to leave. I…” she looked at her hands, not meeting my eyes._

_“I bit him!” she cried, looking up in a flurry of defiance. Looking up at me with big blue eyes, as if daring me to say anything._

_I started to laugh. “I’ve sort of wanted to do that myself, sometimes,” I admitted._

_She stared at me, bottom lip coming out to blow her hair from her face._

_“But you’re his daughter, aren’t you?”_

_“Adopted.”_

_She sucked in her breath, mouth rounding into a little ‘oo’ of surprise. “Really? I’ve never known anyone who was adopted before.”_

_“Well, now you know me. I’m Melody.”_

_“You sound American.”_

_“I am American!”_

_“Well, I’m Scottish. I guess it’s ok that you’re American.” She tilted her head to the side, watching me._

_“I don’t think Melody really suits you, you know,” she said. “It’s nice; very fairy tale.“ She grinned, as if in a sudden recollection._

_“But it doesn’t really seem like it fits you. Can I call you Mels?”_

_I shrugged. In the end, a name was just something you were called. And I was tired of being Melody, anyway. Melody Pond had been scared and uncertain; Melody Lafayette had been unhappy and unfulfilled from the start of her life to the end. But Mels Zucker… now that had a nice ring to it. She sounded like she was someone strong, interesting… a little tough. Maybe I could do that, I thought, turning over her words in my mind. Maybe I could be Mels, and say good-bye to Melody._

_“Sure,” I said. “You can call me that if you want. Who are you, though?”_

_“Amelia,” she answered, holding out a hand for me to shake. “Amelia Pond.”_

_It felt like all the air in the world had been siphoned away, as I stood there with her hand in mine. I had to fight not to gasp for breath. Amelia Pond? Amelia Pond?! But Amelia Pond was my **Mother**. She was a grown-up, slim and elegant and beautiful. Amelia Pond had no right being seven years old, round and plump, with grubby hands, bitten fingernails, and a grass stain down the side of her shirt._

_“Are you alright?” Amelia asked, scrunching up her face to look at me._

_“Yeah,” I said, releasing her fingers. “I’m fine. Want me to walk you home?”_

_“Sure,” she responded, with a lightning-quick grin. “We just moved here from Scotland, a few weeks ago. I don’t really know this town yet, for all that it‘s so small and boring.”_

_“So,” I asked, as we wandered down the road toward her house, “why did you come to see my Dad?”_

_And then Amelia Pond wove me a story, which could have come straight from one of Alison’s fairy tales. Of meeting her friend, the raggedy man who crashed into her shed, fixed the crack in her wall, and ate fish fingers and custard. Of how he promised to take her away in his time machine, which looked like an old blue police box, but had a swimming pool and a library, so it must be bigger on the inside than the outside._

_“Do you believe me?” she asked, standing at her front gate. “Do you think something like that could happen? Or do you think he’s imaginary, too?”_

_“I think,” I began. There was a fervor in her eyes, a desperate plea to be believed. And… well, there it was. Back in 1969, when I was eight, a grown-up Amelia Pond had shot me. I lived for twenty-six years in New York, and had somehow turned back into a child, living in the same rural English village that my mother grew up in._

_Who was I to say what was impossible or not?_

_“I think there are more things in Heaven and on Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” I quoted._

_“Which means,” Amelia said, with a satisfied little smile, “that you believe me. I’m glad._

_And so was I. Confused, but glad._

The perception filters had always only been on Melody; so once she was gone, it was easy enough for the Doctor to enter her apartment. And why, he asked himself, looking around the sparse little room, was he there? Well… to retrieve his books, of course.

It was silly of him, really; but he’d had those books since he was a child on Gallifrey. He’d read each page eagerly, saved pocket money to buy each new serial when they came out. He’d read them to his children… the children lost with Gallifrey that he tried, even now, not to remember. And he’d read them to Susan when she was young. Tucked her up in bed, all dark hair, and rosy cheeks and small bare feet beneath a voluminous nightgown, and read to her for hours past her bedtime. He’d answered all her questions, soniced the toys to make them interact with each other.

Oh, he’d loved that granddaughter of his. He missed her still.

So, really, it wasn’t too surprising that he’d go back for the books.

He found the box Melody had been holding that last night; holding so tightly that he fancied he could see her fingerprints on it. And when he opened it, he was searching for something. That last book she’d been reading with Alison, with the bookmark still only a chapter or two in.

There were times, the Doctor thought, stepping back into the TARDIS and punching in coordinates, that he really wondered about her. About River, his River Song. He’d always vaguely questioned -in an abstract sort of way- if she hadn’t been driven a little mad with the wibbly-wobbly-slippery-sloppery time line she’d been caught in. A child, stolen and hidden in a different country, different time. Regenerating, by herself. Growing up with her parents. Trained to be a killer. When you got down to the nuts and bolts of the whole situation; who wouldn’t be a little crazy when faced with that?

So he had a little gift for Mels, to maybe make it more understandable. Or, just perhaps, to ease her burden… So to speak, anyway.

The Doctor paused, pulling out the book ‘Growing Up With My Parents‘. His fingers brushed gently over the cover, reliving his own memories of it, before he carefully removed her bookmark and slipped two pictures in its place. She’d wanted pictures of Alison, and Miss Wallace… the only parts of her life in New York that he thought she would want to remember. And now, she’d have them.

He could have mailed it, but in the end he judged it to be far easier to simply land the TARDIS in the center of Leadworth, and he was lucky enough to find a little boy passing by to be a messenger.

“Excuse me,” the Doctor called. The boy gave him a surprised look, and came over. His blond hair was long, straggling around his face, and his eyes were very large.

“Do you know the Zucker’s house?” the Doctor asked.

“Yes, sir. It’s just down that way. The blue house.”

“Excellent! Could you do something for me?”

The boy’s eyes grew larger, if such a thing was even possible. He tugged a lock of hair.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he mumbled.

“I’m not a stranger!” the Doctor said, cheerfully. “I’m the Doctor” -oh no, wait, better not say that, he was perilously close to messing up time streams again- “err.. Smith. I’m Doctor Smith.

“And I knew Melody Zucker, back in New York. Do you know her from school?”

An imperceptible nod. The wariness eased from the child’s eyes.

“Could you deliver something for me?” he asked. He held out the small envelope, but the boy made no move to take it.

“What’s in there?”

“A book. She left it in New York. And some pictures of… friends. She didn’t have any, so I brought them for her. But I’ve got to leave, so,” he pushed the package into the boy’s hand. “If you could?”

A nod, slightly larger than the last one he’d been given. A faint smile, showing uneven teeth. 

“Thank you,” the Doctor said. “And what’s your name?” 

“Rory.” 

He stopped. “Rory Williams?” Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see it. The nose… oh, that beaky little nose in miniature. The calm and patience in those large eyes. 

“Thank you, Rory Williams,” he said, beaming from ear to ear. “Into Melody’s hands, mind.” 

He wheeled around, running back to the TARDIS before the boy could say anything else.


	10. August 1996

Despite the fact that the Doctor knew Mels -had met Mels, even- he knew less about her than her previous regenerations. Oh, he knew the important things, certainly. He knew that she’d grown up in Leadworth, as the best friend of Amelia Pond and Rory Williams. He knew that she’d been sassy and impetuous; the only one in that sleepy little village to match Amy for sheer wildness of spirit.

But he didn’t know her. He didn’t know the little things that made her… _her_.

And he was curious. The Doctor’s most besetting sin: that wonderful and horrible curiosity about the things he didn’t know, and didn’t yet understand.

He toyed, briefly, with the thought of asking the Ponds to tell him about her. And yet, something held him back. It might have been wanting to avoid that shimmer of betrayal and grief on both faces, before they would swallow it down and smile; telling him about the shenanigans they’d gotten up to with their childhood friend. Recounting stories from that innocent time in Leadworth, back in the days before they had so much knowledge about who they all were, and who she would become.

Yes, it could have been that. But not completely. He could never bring himself to ask them… and it wasn’t just out of a wish to avoid their sadness.

It because he wanted to get to know Mels the way he had Melody Pond and Melody Lafayette.

Through her own words.

_I have made two friends in the last few weeks_ , she wrote, bold black circles almost flying off the page. The Doctor smiled as he traced them with his fingers, seeing in his mind the child she had been. 

_Amelia Pond, first. Mad, impossible Amelia. As Melody Pond and Melody Lafayette used to do, I kiss her picture every night before going to bed, and every night I search that face for something I recognize. Something that goes beyond the long red hair, the faint freckles, the shape of nose and chin. There must be something… something that links the child I spend my days with to the woman she will become._

_But I still have not found it. There is a peace in the eyes of the grown-up Amelia that does not exist in the child. A happiness, as though her soul is now complete. Every night, I tuck the picture away and sigh. I’m not certain what will occur to turn one to the other, but whatever it is has not happened yet._

_My second friend is Rory Williams. He has been in my Year Two class all along, but I had never noticed him before. It’s easy, really, to ignore him. He’s a slight child, with long blond hair and a perpetually worried expression. Rory, unlike the other boys, is not one who screams and fights and plays with reckless abandon. No, Rory Williams is the sort who watches and waits. He thinks about what he sees, calmly. Rationally. He reasons and applies logic, in a very adult manner for a seven year old._

_He is someone that Melody Pond would have admired. He is a friend Melody Lafayette would have made, despite the other children who shunned her. However he is not -quite- the friend I would have expected to have. He’s almost too calm, too patient. But, I reflect as I sit next to him in class, there is something in him that I find myself being drawn to. Something that I trust; as though Rory Williams is a rock that has been there for thousands of years, and he is the most dependable person for all the universe._

_He delivered a small package to me, the evening that I first met Amelia. Gave me a shy smile, as he thrust it into my hand, muttering that a man had asked him to deliver it to me._

_“What man?” I asked, stripping the envelope off as we stood in my doorway. ___

_Rory faltered, biting the side of his lip as he thought. “I don’t remember,” he said finally. “He has brown hair and he’s really tall. Doctor Smith?”_

_A book fell into my hands, and my eyes widened. It was the last book I’d been reading with Alison… but why would I have been sent it? And how? How would Doctor Smith even have known where to find me?_

_And how could he have known that book would make sense, in the most circular, abstract sort of way. Growing Up with My Parents… Once, that had been a funny story that Alison and I giggled over. Just imagine that, she’d said, growing up with your own parents!_

_It was not that funny, when you found yourself living it._

_I found the second surprise when I opened the book that night. My bookmark was gone, and in its place were two pictures: pictures that I’d wished for. Miss Wallace smiled up at me from a glossy card, and I smiled back at her. Hoping she would know that I am alright. Hoping she knew that I missed her, and that I loved her for caring about me in all those years when I hadn’t even really cared about myself._

_But it was the other picture that made me blink back tears. Alison. Alison, in the days that she was well, beaming up at the camera. When I flipped the picture over, I read what was written on the back in slanted writing, oddly familiar._

_‘I hope this helps you remember her.’_

_I love it. But as I tucked the photos away next to the ones of Melody Pond’s childhood, I realized something. If I lived a thousand more years, I could never forget Alison, and never forget her face._

_Especially not now. It was too close to the one I saw every day. There was a certain thrill that came over me when I glanced in the mirror to brush my teeth, or while washing my face… that somehow, in me, Alison continued. Whatever it was that changed me, I found some pleasure that it had used her image and Miss Wallace’s as a template._

_In the long summer days that followed that school year, I saw Amelia every day. We’d ride our bikes to the playground to careen down the slides face-first at full speed, and twirl as fast as we could on the tire swing. The other kids from school would join us, and it would be like one long recess. The screaming and playing and fighting and fun… oh, I’ve never experienced anything like that._

_Still, it was difficult to get used to. To the casual observer, I might look like one of them; just another child on the playground. But I’m not really. I’ve lived for thirty-five years, by my reasoning. The time to romp with childish abandon has long passed me by… and yet, I can’t stop when I‘m out there with them. I don’t **want** to stop. There is a freedom in the feeling of the monkey bars stinging my palms as I bravely make my way across, and in the air swirling around my cheeks as my legs pumped the swings higher and higher. And I loved it… absolutely loved it more than I’d ever have thought imaginable. It eased the itchy feeling in my head, created by feeling trapped in that small town. Of the bad dreams that never left me, not once. So every day I would run and scream and play with the other children; loving the release of energy that came over me and relaxed my mind. _

_On the grey days when rain threatened, I went to Amelia’s house. (Honesty makes me admit that those grey days seemed to come very often here in England, but I didn’t mind too much.) Her mother, Tabetha, gave us biscuits and Ribena when we played in her room. It was a thrill beyond reason; those biscuits. They were not like the cookies that I missed from New York, but they were good, just the same. My body craved sweets, and here they were… Digestive biscuits, coated in chocolate. Gingerbread men, with raisins for eyes and buttons. Jaffa cakes, with the combination of tart citrus and chocolate breaking over my tongue. And if I stayed there long enough, her mother made beans on toast for tea, and gave us massive helpings of treacle tart, served with a side of rich custard._

_It was the custard that made Amelia’s eyes glow._

_“Can I show you something?” she asked, tugging my hand to a box she kept in the corner. Before I had time to nod, the lid was thrown open, and she began to produce dolls from inside it. Red yarn hair and a dotted nightgown on crudely sculpted figures show me that some are clearly meant to be her._

_But it is the other that made me pause. A man, with dark hair. A ragged, ripped suit._

_“It’s him,” she said, excitement making her almost bounce in place. “The raggedy man. My raggedy doctor.”_

_The last word made me freeze. Blood turned to ice in my veins._

_“The raggedy… Doctor?” I asked, faintly._

_“Yes,” Amelia said. “I told you about him.”_

_So she had. Time and time and time again, she’d told me about him. But she’d never used that word before. Doctor. A word that stirred something my brain… brought out the sleeping anger that I still lived through at night and I tried to keep hidden away in the daytime._

_“I’m going to marry him one day,” Amelia told me, beaming. She cradled the doll in her arms._

_“No, you’re not!” I cried. “You’re not going to marry the - Doctor!” I couldn’t help myself. I spit out the last word, feeling like it was something dreadful and nasty._

_Amelia blinked at me in surprise, lowering the doll slowly to the floor. “Why not?”_

_“Oh…” That sudden flash of anger dissipated, leaving me feeling silly. What a reaction, and to what was only a word. An ordinary word. Doctor. Still, not a word I wanted to say again._

_“Because… because I want to marry him,” I finished lamely. “He’s going to come back for you to take you travelling… but, could I marry him?” I managed a grin, hoping it came across as light-hearted and cheeky. It worked. She laughed out loud, and her cheeks dimpled._

_“Well…” she said, coiling a strand of hair around her finger. “Maybe… Once he‘s taken me on adventures through time and space, first._

_“Yeah, maybe I’ll let you can marry him.”_

_She made me play Raggedy Doctor, every day for the next week. And I wanted to, if only because I wanted to have this thing to share with her, no matter what it was. Also, I liked seeing it when she smiled. She smiled often, Amelia Pond, and I treasured each one I saw._

_But it was becoming harder and harder to hold in my anger. When she would hand me the Doctor doll, I just wanted to pound him against the floor. It’s your fault, I wanted to rage at that little lump of clay and paint. Everything is all your fault. I had gained a modicum of peace, and even a wry sense of humor after reading Growing Up With My Parents. It had laid certain ground rules: in particular, nothing can be gained, if you tell the truth and explain who you are. There is a time for everything; and the time to be honest is not when your parents are children along with you._

_And yet, every time I thought of the Doctor, the bad, bad Doctor who had stolen the love that should have been mine, my cheeks flushed with anger. Every time I looked at Amelia, blissfully talking about how he crashed into her life and how he’d come back and take her away; I had to bite my lip to not tell her everything I knew about him. Every horrible story I’d been told. A description of his bad qualities: starting wars and lying. He was far from the shining hero she dreamed about who would return to save her. No, he was the Doctor: a vain, selfish man who stole people’s lives and affections._

_Would it be worth it, to break her illusions? No. Probably not. But I couldn’t keep playing this game, speaking in his voice. I was growing to hate myself for doing it._

_“Do you know Rory?” I asked her, one afternoon. “Rory Williams?”_

_“That boy with the long hair? I think so.” Her attention wasn’t really on me, but she nodded._

_“I think we should have him play the Doctor,” I told her. “I… I want to play Prisoner Zero instead.”_

_“You want to be the bad guy?” Amelia looked at me, eyes wide in surprise._

_Mostly, I didn’t want to have to pretend to be the Doctor anymore. But I didn’t care too much about being the bad guy, or being some sort of prisoner escaped from a galactic prison._

_“Yes,” I lied. “I want to be the bad guy. It’ll be more fun.”_

_And it was. Rory, after conquering his shyness in front of Amelia, made an excellent Doctor, and I got to use funny voices, deep and grumbling or high and squeaky, to portray different aliens, different prisoners._

_And truth be told, as it turned out, I made an excellent bad guy. I was so terrifying that Amelia actually stared at me, eyes wide, more than a few times. Rory only shivered, and didn’t say a word._

_It wasn’t long before all the children were playing Raggedy Doctor along with us. Ben and Jeff, curious to know why Rory was playing with girls were the first to join the game. Ben brought along his brothers, Sam and Dan the next time. They, in turn, brought their cousins, who brought their neighbors, who brought their friends…_

_And in the middle of everything was Amelia, dictating stories and coming up with impossible plans about what to pretend next. Red haired, round faced, freckled Amelia Pond, is, as it turns out a bossy little leader with a strong personality and wild ideas. I watched her quite often, trying to hide my grin._

_She may not be the Mother I’d always expected, but at that moment, she was everything I could have wanted her to be. I was growing to adore her, more and more, with each day that passed. Enough to play Raggedy Doctor, to ignore my life-long anger toward that man who had once stolen everything from me and would ruin the world. Enough want to be around her, as much as I could._

_It was Amelia’s birthday at the end of that summer, and I was invited to the very first birthday party of my life. I planned for weeks about what to wear: a black dress with white butterflies on it, and white sandals. Despite Janet’s love of simplistic toys, of things that were only grown or created by nature, she gave in to my pleading and took me to the big, commercial shops to find Amelia’s present._

_“What about this?“ she asked, valiantly not expressing her own opinions, as she held up plastic dolls, violently colored plush animals and intricate board games. “Do you think she’d like these?”_

_I did think she’d like them. Of course she would like them! Every child would. But none of those things, those toys and games… they weren’t right. They weren’t perfect. And for Amelia Pond, I wanted something perfect._

_So I vetoed each choice. I cradled teddy bears in my arms to test their huggability, and debated over doll clothes, trying to decide what would be the best thing. But in the end, I didn’t find perfect. It found me instead._

_There was a jewelry display in Debenhams where Janet took me after the toy store, to find new school clothes. And there it was, glittering at the end of a long row of necklaces. A slender gold chain, with an alphabet charm dangling from it. My fingers left smudges on the glass, as I traced its shape. An ‘A’… ‘A’ for Amelia._

_There some something so familiar, so perfect about it, that my breath caught in my chest. That… that was just the thing for her._

_“Oh, Mels,” Janet said, noticing at last what I was staring at. “You can’t buy something like that for an eight year old. She’d lose it.”_

_“I bet she wouldn’t,” I murmured, fingers still tracing its outline through the glass. “I bet she’d love it.”_

_She may indeed have loved it, but Janet wouldn’t let me buy it. And I didn’t get pocket money to afford it on my own. What a strange thought: pocket money. Melody Lafayette had been working for the last ten years, able to afford whatever took her fancy. But here I was, back to being eight years old, without a single penny to my name. What a horrible and frustrating feeling._

The Doctor hesitated, his fingers closing the book. Time Lords; they were always adults when they regenerated. Oh, perhaps not always. But mostly. It was rare to die while still in childhood, to regenerate and have to start back earlier and earlier than you’d left. 

And too, on Gallifrey, everyone had understood regeneration. This sort of thing would never have happened there. He cringed, thinking of the mind-numbing boredom of living your early life over and over again. Having to pretend to be normal, to fit in. If Mels hadn’t had the distraction of getting to know her parents… what might she have become? 

His mind was still following that track as he walked into the purple sitting room, finding Amy and Rory busily building a house of cards. Rather, Rory was busily building the house. Amy was dictating the design. 

“Pond,” he said, flinging himself into a chair next to her. Rory made a half-squeaking sound, as the breeze he’d displaced threatened to topple the highest storey. 

“I was wondering about that,” he said, waving a hand toward her neck. 

Amy nervously patted down her hair, her throat and collarbone, before peering down herself. 

“Wondering about…what exactly?” she asked, fixing him with an odd look. 

“Oh!” the Doctor said, blushing a little as he realized what part of her anatomy her hands were framing. “Your necklace. I was wondering about your necklace.” 

“My necklace?” Amy stared at him. 

“Yes. Where did you get it?” 

Now both the Ponds were staring, as though it was a funny thing to ask. He supposed it might seem that way to them. 

“Mels,” Amy said, finally. Her eyebrows were raised, face scrunched up in a question. “She gave it to me, when we were…eight? It’s the first thing she ever gave me. Everyone else gave me toys and books and stuff for my birthday. But she gave me this, and said she thought it’d be perfect. 

“My parents,” Amy continued with a slight frown, “wouldn’t let me wear it for years. Said I’d lose it. Anyway, we weren’t allowed to wear jewellery at school. But I always kept it, and when I was about eighteen, I started wearing it all the time.” Her frown deepened, as though remembering something. But, the Doctor reasoned, as he leapt to his feet, she always had that face when she remembered something from the childhood-that-hadn’t-happened, but sort-of-had. 

“Many thanks,” he said, rushing out of the room and ignoring their surprised looks. 

There was silence left behind him, as Amy and Rory looked at each other. Identical, confused expressions graced both faces. 

“Sometimes,” Rory said slowly, “he is so…”

“Weird,” Amy finished. She glanced at the door, wondering if it was worth going after him, forcing him to explain his strange behaviour lately, the strange questions and trips. She took a deep breath, eyes narrowed. But then she shook off the odd mood he’d left behind him. There was no point. The Doctor would always do what he thought appropriate; but when the timing was right, she’d get some answers out of him if she had to squeeze him like a sponge. 

“Right, you.” She smiled at her husband, and handed him the next card. Without a word, Rory smiled back and gently placed the card on top, before leaning over to hold her hand, and kiss her fingertips. 

* * *

He waited until the Ponds had gone to bed that night, before carefully timing his trips. Debenhams, to buy the necklace Mels had been eyeing. And then back to Leadworth, to the Zucker’s blue house surrounded by hedges. He chose to leave the box on the desk in Jamie’s office with a carefully worded note, rather than risk having anyone see him playing messenger again. 

And then he went back to her diary. Flipping through the familiar pages, he paused to read the next few lines. 

_I’d already wrapped up Amelia’s present: a new Barbie doll, with long red hair. If you half-closed your eyes, and squinted and pretended a lot… it would almost look like her. At least, I made believe it did. But then Janet came in, the day of Amelia’s party, to lay something down beside me on the bed._

_“Your Dad and I have been holding onto this,” she said in her wispy, fluttery voice, “because we weren’t sure if we should give it to you. But we finally decided that… well, it’s what you’d wanted.”_

_My fingers trembled a little as I pried open the small white box, to find the necklace, that perfect necklace, glimmering on a soft wad of white wool. Spontaneously, I hugged Janet in gratitude and surprise. I think she was surprised as well… I’d never voluntarily touched either of the Zuckers._

_“Thank you,” I told her, remembering my manners at the last moment, “for buying it for me.”_

_“Oh, we didn-” Janet paused, flustered. She patted me awkwardly on the back._

_“Never mind,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re happy.”_

_In thirty-five years, I’d never been to a birthday party before. And this one satisfied every secret longing I’d ever had to go to one. There were fairy lights strung up all around the Pond’s garden, and glittery garlands of stars that I’d helped Amelia make. There was a table full of arts and crafts supplies to make fanciful masks, and in a corner was a magician to teach us card tricks and pull twenty-pence pieces from behind our ears. And before it was time for cake and presents, we did races: three-legged ones, and ones hopping in potato sacks. I was particularly good at running, holding an egg on a spoon. Unlike the other children, my balance never wavered._

_Despite my convictions that she would like my present, I was a little worried when I saw what everyone else gave her. Dolls and furniture. Books. Games._

_But I needn’t have worried. She opened my present last with a delighted giggle, and when everyone else had flooded towards the cake, she turned to me._

_“Oooo,” she said, her eyes wide as she tentatively touched a finger to it. “Mels, it’s so pretty!”_

_“I thought you’d like it,” I said shyly. “It seemed right for my… friend.”_

_Part of me wished I could tell her the truth. It wasn’t really that it seemed right for my friend; not for Amelia Pond, now eight years old, with her crazy ideas and the hiccupping giggle and the wild sense of fun._

_No, it wasn’t right for her. But it was for the woman she’d grow up to be. Amelia Pond, my Mother._

_“Friends?” Amelia said, seeming surprised by the word. “We’re not… friends.” A slow pain built in my chest, a sharp thudding reminding me that in the end, I have nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing._

_“We’re best friends!” she announced gleefully, linking her arm through mine and giving it a little squeeze. “Best friends, forever!”_

_And just like that, the pain was gone, and I found myself beaming at her._


	11. September 1996

September 1996

If one lives to be over 900 years old, it is logical that you will -eventually- run the gamut of ordinary emotions and occurrences. The Doctor had certainly visited with each of them… moving easily through the extremes of anguish… wonder… bitterness… excitement… and loss. (There always was loss, at the end of everything.)

Yes, he’d always thought that he’d experienced it all, at one point or another. But even he had to admit that in all that time, he’d rarely had _this_. That moment of pure bliss he found whenever he kissed River goodnight.

It wasn’t the farewell part of the evening, of course. He never liked goodbyes. They were too miserable, too… final. Over nine centuries, he’d had too many goodbyes, and each one nearly ripped him apart.

But the kissing part was beyond what mere words could describe… and it wasn’t only the physical things his hearts exulted in. The lovely sensation of her lips pressed against his. Soft curves beneath his hands, as he pulled her closer. The taste of her: citrus and vanilla, with the added spiciness from that hint of time and space that one would only get kissing another from Gallifrey. Her hair tickling the side of his face before he pushed his hands into it, feeling the smooth ripples of her curls beneath his fingers.

No, the thing that made it so incredible was that he was with her. His brilliant, bespoke River Song; the woman who embodied everything he could ever have wanted in the world, despite whether he knew he’d wanted it before she crashed into his life. And every time he got to that perfect moment, kissing his wife goodnight after an adventure when they were both full of the adrenaline of what had been, and the anticipation of future adventures to come… it was just amazing. He wanted to wrap it up in a bubble, freeze that memory and sensation to last for all eternity.

Which was impossible, of course. You can’t really hold a kiss forever, even if you wanted to. On a rational level: eventually, one will need air.

But that night, things felt a little different somehow. It had been an ordinary date at the start: dinner at a little bistro in Lynsil, talking and laughing over local delicacies of escargot in a purple butter sauce and star fruit soufflé. From there, however, the evening had ended prematurely after a poetry reading (in which the Doctor inadvertently laughed during a tragic monologue detailing how the King had lost his hair), which in turn led to River waving a gun to force the angry poets and angrier royal family away, and them fleeing back to the TARDIS.

Alright, it had been a normal evening, by their standards. But later that night, River was the one to break away from their kiss first, breathing heavily as she looked up at him. She ran her fingers along his cheek, smoothing his hair behind his ears and caressing the back of his neck.

“What’s wrong, my love?”

He started, flustered. Looked into her eyes, green and narrowed with concern.

“Who says there’s something wrong? I didn’t say anything was wrong! And what kind of comment is that when we… you know… when we’re…” He puckered his lips at her, finding himself at a loss for words.

He felt her sigh, rather than hearing it.

“Kissing, Doctor. The word is kissing; I don’t know why you still have trouble saying it. You certainly don’t have trouble doing it,” she added in a low voice.

He blushed, not meeting her eyes. He hated it when she was right.

“And the question wasn’t in regards to the kiss. It was because something has been on your mind all night.”

“No,” he scoffed. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

“There’s always something on your mind.”

And there were definitely times that he hated that she knew him so well.

“There’s nothing important on my mind,” he said, being careful not to meet her eyes.

“There’s always something important on your mind,” she said, giving a low chuckle, her fingers still caressing the nape of his neck. He gulped and closed his eyes, wishing they could stay like that, with no more questions he didn‘t want to answer.

“Never mind,” River murmured. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.” She kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then gave him a little push toward the TARDIS.

“Thanks for a lovely time,” his wife said, as she pulled the door of her cell closed. “See you soon.”

The thing was, she’d been right about him having something on his mind, he thought as he walked back into the TARDIS. She was always right about things like that. She knew him, after all. Knew him completely and thoroughly, no matter which _him_ it was that she met.

Despite the poetry and running and flirting -not to mention the kissing- what had been on his mind all that evening was that he was vaguely annoyed that he couldn’t completely reciprocate. He couldn’t help it. In the back of his mind that night, every time he looked at her, he just kept thinking: ‘who are you? Who are you? Tell me all about you.‘

For all the time he’d known her, River Song had been a frustrating and enchanting combination of mysteries and spoilers. Time had eliminated the biggest questions of who and what she was… but he still felt there was so much to learn about.

And that, he admitted, was a big part of why he was so fascinated by her diary. River had always known him… even if the early part of her knowledge had focused on the negative, to only later be tempered by the good. Well, he wanted to know her, just as well. The things she’d done. What she liked. How she thought.

And it had worked, to an extent. He knew about her early years, the time that he’d previously known nothing about. But Mels… she was different. More reserved somehow, in how she expressed herself, even within her own diary. He didn’t know Mels as well as he wanted to. 

She didn’t write as much about her day-to-day life, as she had before. There was none of that exploration that Melody Lafayette had done of her surroundings; no minute-by-minute recounting of her day and classmates as from Melody Pond. And he found that he missed that, hearing about her little griefs and joys and interests and hatreds. Oh, he could accept that with so much of her attention focused on Amy, Mels must have had minimal interest in the other kids. And, too, she wouldn’t have found a need to describe her daily life in a small town. (He’d visited Leadworth, after all. He didn’t feel the need to document it either.)

He flopped down diagonally across River’s bed, resting his cheek against her diary before he opened it to keep reading. The more he read, the more he got the feeling that he’d have to talk to the Ponds after all. Subtly find a way to get them to fill in the gaps about Mels’ childhood; to have them share the information that they would have, that she hadn’t felt the need to write about.

_Long ago_ , he read, _I had loathed summer vacation. Being alone during those long, hot days. Hiding inside, huddled before fans or air conditioners, when the heat rose in waves off the sidewalks, and every venture outside made your skin feel as though it was slowly broiling. Devouring books because I had nothing better to do; and waiting, in breathless anticipation, for September and the start of school._

_Melody Lafayette, and Melody Pond before her, had always liked school. It wasn‘t the routine of classes, the challenges and acquisition of knowledge; or even the visceral joys of the smell of textbooks and freshly sharpened yellow pencils, the promise of new composition notebooks with their marbled black-and-white covers. No, their enjoyment stemmed from the fact that the distraction of education made them forget the monotony of nightmares, the lack of love and family that constituted their normal lives._

_And, too, knowledge came so easily! As though there was some enormous fountain in their brain that bubbled up and over, filling them with thoughts and ideas and information beyond what most people seemed capable of._

_Small wonder that years ago, school had been something to anticipate. It had been something to excel at, despite whatever else they had lacked._

_But now, in 1996, my first summer in Leadworth ended far too soon. It felt as though I was just getting accustomed to my new life, this new childhood. Tofu and vegetables and brown rice at home with the Zuckers, but ice cream and biscuits with the Ponds. Sleeping late, and then running and playing every afternoon until the sun went down. The long games of Raggedy Doctor with Amelia, and the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. With all my playacting, from using different voices to portray villain after villain, by August I’d already learned to fake a English accent so perfect that most children had even forgotten I was from America._

_Amelia’s birthday party was the last big event of that summer before everyone began to look forward to the return to school. But as for me… well, I dreaded what was to come. It’s not as though it would be a big surprise or a pleasure. The thought of what returning to school would mean preyed upon my mind. Sitting still for hours a day. Following rules. Being obedient. And all that still says nothing of the tedium of repeating work I’d done before, years and years ago. Addition and subtraction and multiplication. History, watered down with all the interesting naughty bits taken out. Reading comprehension of paragraph-long stories in simple vocabulary, and writing sentence-length answers instead of the pages of detailed analysis that I was capable of._

_Sometimes, I wondered vaguely what would happen if anyone in sleepy little Leadworth found out the true amount of information I already had in my head. I’d probably be branded some type of child genius. Poked and prodded as people tried to understand why I was so intelligent. Taken away, forced to perform amazing feats of knowledge._

_Well, no thank you. Not for me. Boredom or not, I was going to pretend to be as normal as any other eight year old. And why?_

_For the sake of Amelia, my mother-turned-best friend. Thirty-five years of looking at her picture, secretly daydreaming about her hadn‘t prepared me for the realities of what she was like. She was, just simply: Amelia. Giggly Amelia. Imaginative Amelia. Stubborn, bossy, impractical Amelia. There weren’t enough adjectives in the world to describe her fully. And I adored her; enough to finally force myself into braving the monotony of school to spend the most time with her that I could._

_At least I felt like that until I found out that I was placed in the other Year Three from her. I was reconciled to going back to school. What I was not reconciled to was wasting my time being bored, if I‘d barely see her all day._

_“It’s not fair!” I whined to the Zuckers over breakfast that morning. “Amelia and I aren’t in the same class!”_

_“You’ll see her at break,” Janet said. “And after school.”_

_“But it’s not the same! She’s my best friend, and I want to be with her. Can’t I switch classes?”_

_Janet and Jamie exchanged a look. And then another one._

_“Oh, Mels,” Janet said. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Oh, well…“ Janet’s voice trailed off and she looked away from me. She didn’t need to say it, not really. There were moments when it felt like I could read her thoughts. She’d met her parents, and pronounced them lovely people. And she liked Amelia, herself. But the things I’d grown to treasure about her made Janet a little uncomfortable. It is one thing to champion free-thinking and to be amused by childish imagination and funny habits; and yet deep down, Janet was perturbed that if I spent more time with Amelia, I‘d be as ungovernable as she seemed to be. Also, despite the rules of client-patient privilege, Jamie had given her some basic information about why Amelia had come to see him. So because of that, combined with the fact that they still knew very little of the troubled past I’d come from, meant that she wasn’t sure if Amelia was the best possible friend I could have._

_But either I’d absorbed some of her personality by osmosis during that summer, or some traits really are inherited from generation to generation. I was determined to be as stubborn as Amelia over this, and I refused to give up._

_“Why can’t I switch classes?” I asked again, over and over. “But why not?”_

_I tried everything. I asked the Zuckers, together and separately all throughout the week before school, making sure to keep my voice calm and polite. When that brought no response, I begged for them to speak to the Headmaster. I grew angry. I pleaded. But none of that worked._

_And in the end, the night before school started, when I began to despair of convincing them to change my class… I shed a few very noisy tears over dinner that evening._

_Jamie was the first one to crack. Abandoning his plate, he came over to tentatively put his arm around my shoulders, and in that second I realized the ultimate thing I could say that would break down their defenses._

_“Please, Dad,” I said, turning to sob loudly into his shirt front, hoping he wouldn‘t see that I wasn‘t actually crying anymore, just making noise. “Please, Mum.”_

_It was the first time I’d ever called them Mum and Dad. I could sense their feelings, as they both fussed and fluttered over me, awkwardly patting my shoulder, and kissing the top of my head. They were surprised. Pleased. And oh, so happy that I was finally settling in at last. Learning to view them as my family._

_There were times that their peaceful amiability annoyed me, but at the heart of it all, the Zuckers weren‘t bad people. They’d just wanted to raise a happy child… and this was something they could do to make me happy. So I hugged them, teary and grateful, when they went to school with me the following morning to make their request; and hid away my smug smile until they weren’t in front of me to see it._

_There was a time in the past that I might have felt a little guilty about how I’d manipulated them. Because it had been manipulation, pure and simple. Giving them just a little bit of what they wanted; so long as it got me my primary objective. But that first morning, as I slid into the seat next to Amelia, I couldn’t find it anywhere in myself to feel bad. After all, what was I really asking for? A chance to enjoy the childhood I‘d never had before. To have what nearly every other child in the world gets: a relationship with their mother._

_All the same, I was bored as the year wore on. With the exception of Amelia, the other little girls in class sat primly in their chairs. They raised their hands decorously to answer questions. They did all their work, right when they were supposed to._

_But me? Sitting still did not come naturally to me; not anymore, at least. I fidgeted. I twitched. I drew faces on my eraser. I made my pencil sharpener tap dance across my desk, and slipped notes to Amelia._

_And then finally, when the boredom threatened to completely overwhelm my mind, I began to write on the edges of my paper. I did the sort of writing that I do here in this journal, drawing the loops and curlicues that make up all the names I have had. Melody Pond. Melody Lafayette. Mels Zucker. I wrote them over and over, making interconnected circles spiralling down the side of my notebook. Even though I’d done this writing my whole life, it still took concentration. Each one must be done just so - the slightest extensions of a line or curve can change a meaning, produce different words and change tenses. And so, while I did that, I finally had to be still._

_In fact, I was so absorbed that I missed when the classroom fell into silence around me. It took Rory poking me in the back for me to look up._

_“What?” I asked, concentration broken. Beneath my pencil, a jagged line turned Melody into Symphony. Our teacher, Miss Finch, was looking at me._

_“Mels,” she said, “I asked you a question. Were you listening?”_

_No, of course I wasn’t listening. Was she blind? I think everyone knew I hadn’t been listening._

_But it was always easy enough to answer questions without sparing them much thought. I glanced at the board, my eyes taking in the triangle drawn there, and to the angle the pointer was touching._

_“Obtuse,” I replied, without thinking._

_There was a hush across the room before the giggles broke out. Every single child in the room was giggling… but why?_

_Miss Finch looked shocked. “Well, yes, but we haven’t covered…” The giggles around me grew louder and turned into laughter._

_“Class, please!” Miss Finch clapped her hands to restore order._

_“Mels, I wanted you to add together how long the sides of the triangle are.“ The pointer delicately touched the three numbers, one after the other as she stared at me, brows raised in a question._

_“12,” I said, feeling a little snotty. If she’d wanted the perimeter, why had she pointed at the angle? And of course I knew how to find the perimeter of a triangle. How easy was that? A + B + C. What was she…_

_Oh. With my lack of attention, I’d inadvertently answered a question she hadn’t asked. Not only that, I’d replied with something quite far out of the realm of what the rest of the children here would even know. No wonder she looked so confused. And no wonder the class was laughing. To them, it must have sounded like I was making up words. I glowered down at my paper, feeling a little betrayed. Beside me, even Amelia had her hand up to cover a grin._

_“Obtuse?” Jeff called out, from across the room. “What’s… obtuse?”_

_“It means stupid,” I said scathingly. “Like you!”_

_I swear, I really didn’t mean to say that. The words fell out my mouth before my brain could stop them._

_“Mels!” Miss Finch exclaimed. Her shocked look had turned to a scandalized one. “Apologize to Jeff, right now. We do not use the word stupid to describe any student in this classroom.”_

_“Sorry, Jeff,” I said, trying to sound contrite. Then I added under my breath: “Sorry you’re obtuse.”_

_The resulting laughter of the class followed me all the way down the hall, as I made my inaugural trip to the Headmaster. He’d been warned when I started school about what type of background I’d likely come from; and so his lecture lacked the harshness it might have done. (I still tuned it out, though. I didn‘t really need him to tell me that what I‘d said was inappropriate. I‘m not a child, after all.)_

_But sitting there, letting his words wash past me into meaningless sound, I had a sudden thought._

_All my life so far, I’d always been so good. Following all the rules. Keeping my head down. Doing what was right, and expected, and proper. There was a time, long ago, when the laughter of my peers -laughter directed at me- would have been devastating. I would have hated it! Being made fun of, and being the center of attention._

_But now it felt different. It felt… good. It had been completely unintentional, but I could be… funny. I’d never been funny before. I’d even been bad at telling jokes and delivering a punch line properly._

_Every shy child secretly dreams of being the class clown. Producing joke and joke, having a roomful of people hanging on your every word, every action. At least, I’d always dreamed of that. And now, Mels Zucker had the chance to become the class clown._

_No, not just that. As the weeks went on, Mels Zucker became the comic relief of the entire school. Even the older students, who normally would not deign to acknowledge the lowly Year 3’s knew my name. Every pair of eyes in that school followed me around, to see the funny and shocking things I’d come up with next._

_Maybe, I reasoned, the trick to being funny was to just say whatever you were thinking, no matter how bad it sounded. So in each class, I said whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to say it. I deliberately gave wrong answers, or made things up. I pretended I didn’t know my assignments, or spoke in an insolent voice when I did give the right responses._

_And then, just to confuse everyone, I’d do all my work properly for a few days. 100s on every exam, and answering questions in class with thoughtful, insightful comments. It’s always best to keep people on their toes, after all._

_Consequently, I got in trouble a lot. The Headmaster continually rolled his eyes, never surprised to see me whenever I’d saunter into his room. (I thought about telling him they’d get stuck that way, but I never did. I had a sneaking suspicion he didn’t have that much of a sense of humor; especially when it came to me.)_

_But getting into trouble was a bit thrilling. I’d never really been in trouble, unless you counted that brief period as a shoplifter back in New York. And this wasn’t really trouble to the same degree; not proper, capital T sort of trouble. It was just attitude, smart-aleck comments, silly jokes and pranks_

_When you got down to it, this was just… fun. Livening up a small town, deadly boring existence. Making a reputation for myself as the sassy, unsquashable Mels Zucker._

_If I have to be honest, I will admit that there were times that the adult part of me, deep down, wondered if I was out of control. It is one thing for a child to do those things; but I’m not a child anymore. I’ve lived more than three decades, and have all that knowledge and wisdom locked away inside my head telling me, at times, that I was acting a bit silly._

_Yet, I didn’t want to stop. I wasn’t hurting anyone! And, even if I have lived more than three decades, what is the point of living, but not living your life to the most it can be? You should never stop trying new things. And in all that time I‘d been alive, I’d never been out of control before. It was a fascinating new experience, and I was quite enjoying it._

_The kindness of the Zuckers felt, at times, to be intolerable. I think that if any other child got in trouble at school as much as I did, they would have faced a great deal of anger at home. But my parents were always so… nice. So patient. So unwilling to scold, even though they must have wanted to._

_Janet, sweet and fluttery Janet would try to excuse anything away, seeking only good in all my actions. Jamie was a little tougher to fool, but in the end, the psychiatrist in him would always blame my early upbringing for why I found it so hard to settle down._

_He had no idea._

_But they meant well, and so I made small concessions to their kindness toward me. A few hugs and kisses had them wrapped around my little fingers. A spontaneous-seeming ‘I’m so glad I live with you now’ made them beam for days. And I saved those two precious little words, Mum and Dad, for when I really needed to give them a treat. In the end, it was always easy to make them forgive me, for whatever I was accused of at school._

_My days were full of laughter and pranks and friends; but my nights were the same as they’d always been. I still dreamed bad dreams every night: of violence, of wars and the end of time itself, as I raised up a familiar-yet unfamiliar- weapon to mow down the horrible creatures in my path. I saw those beings in the black suits, tall and terrifying and utterly unmemorable upon awakening._

_And she was still there, after all these years. I could deal with the violence, the sickening images of war and bloodshed. After all this time, while they still turned my stomach inside-out, I could deal with them. Fire that gun, bang bang bang bang, and they’d eventually go away. But she still upset me. Mean-Miss-One-Eye, with her eye patch and sticky sweet voice, telling tales about the general and specific badness of the Bad Space Man called the Doctor. Reminding me of what he has cost me, to say nothing of what he has done to the world for hundreds and hundreds of years._

_Every night without fail, she hissed words of doom into my ear, stories to sadden and frighten me. But as the weeks wear on, somehow, I’m not as afraid of all that as I once was. Mels Zucker is too strong to let that affect her for long. Mischievous and impudent Mels Zucker, the Troublemaker of Leadworth, has learned that practiced insolence paired with a confident smile can work wonders to confuse authority._

_So I pretend not to listen to the stories. I whistle, carelessly, at words that might have made me cry long ago. I laugh -albeit a little hysterically- at the confusion that sweeps over her face at my actions, until I finally wake up safe in my own bed._

_But despite the brave front I have learned to put on while I sleep, I wake shaking. Deep down, there is still something terrifying about my dreams. I still want to run; run as fast as I can, and as far as I can to escape. Lying in bed underneath leaf-patterned sheets and blankets, I curl up my toes until the bottom of my foot cramps, then flex and point my feet, stretch my legs until they hurt. Anything, to ease that tension within me. It would be impossible to slip out of the house and go running, no matter how much I wanted to. I didn’t have keys to get back in, and the doors all locked automatically._

_Janet persisted in leaving a nightlight on for me, thinking that my nightmares would be alleviated if I didn’t wake up to pitch black surroundings. It was a nice idea, but the contents of my room were all the more terrifying in semi-darkness. The square outlines of desk and dresser were frighteningly stark, leaving shadows for monsters to lurk behind. Despite tightly closing my windows at night, there was a breeze that continually ruffled the curtains and made it look like someone was hiding within them. And there was a stuffed elephant on the shelf that seemed positively evil when viewed from the angle of my bed below, in the tiny glow of the nightlight._

_And so, many nights, I quietly got out of bed to find a torch, and a book. The Zuckers were not readers, however, so I found precious little on the shelves. On silent bare feet, I snuck into the sitting room to retrieve the few things there. Jamie’s books on psychiatry and anatomy, and Janet’s books on nutrition. Leather-bound, gold rimmed copies of the classics. I’d read most of them before, so long ago, but I’ve got all the time in the world on those sleepless nights to visit them again. Victor Hugo’s novels are good ones; he can ramble for tens of pages to express a single point about someone‘s character, and I avidly read each word, drawing them out slowly to make the books last._

_But last night I finished reading everything in the house. Every single book. In desperation, I’d even perused the cookbooks hidden high up on a dusty shelf in the kitchen. And still my toes tapped and my fingers twitched, and I just needed… something. I needed a distraction. Something to keep myself occupied._

_I’m not sure why I’d never thought of doing that before, but I slipped on trainers and dark trousers, throwing a black hooded sweatshirt on for warmth. And then I quietly, slowly, slipped Janet’s keys out of her coat pocket, disabled the alarm and slid out the back door._

_Freedom, at last. It was quiet outside, the ground wet from a late-night shower. I took a deep, shuddering breath of the damp, chilly air, feeling it flood into my lungs and dispel the lingering dreams from my brain._

_And then, as I had so many times before, I began to run. Down the road, away from all the houses. I ran and ran, feeling lighter than the air. Each footstep was barely a touch upon the wet pavement as I sprinted past the playground and toward the duck pond that Amelia loved._

_There was a box next to the duck pond, surprisingly dry with all the rain that had fallen. I slowed down, squinting at it. It seemed familiar; as familiar as a brown box can seem. Curiosity made me open it, and its contents made me gasp_

_The box was crammed with books. A thick collection of all Shakespeare’s works. Novels by Agatha Christie. Books on science and chemistry and computer design and technology. Books to study and practice languages. I pulled out volumes on Latin and Greek and French and German… and some others that looked made up. (They sounded made up, too, when I tentatively tried to pronounce a few words.) Histories of the ancient world, detailing Roman politics and the building of the pyramids in Egypt._

_The note at the bottom of the box, beneath everything, read: ‘For whoever finds this; I hope they will be useful.’_

_I couldn’t run back to my house. I walked as swiftly as I could, stopping often to rest my arms as I carried that box. But there wasn’t the slightest chance I wouldn’t have taken it back with me. Books to read when I woke up at night, new things to study and learn about and distract me from what my life was. It seems that the more things change; the more they stay the same._

As pleased as he was that she’d found something to occupy her nights, the Doctor still closed River’s diary feeling a little grumpy.

“And what did you learn about her, tonight?” he asked himself, heading out of her bedroom. That she was bored in school? He’d known that already. That she’d been a mouthy little troublemaker? Manipulative?

He’d known all that. Of course, he’d still read all of it; hanging on each word as they filled out the image of who Mels was. But he still wished that he’d learned something new… just a little something more about her.

And then he suddenly stopped grumbling to himself and actually _thought_ about what he‘d just read.

What was that last bit, again? She’d stolen Janet’s keys. Snuck out of the house to go running and found…

“Stupid, stupid Doctor,” he mumbled, smacking his head and running into his library. “How did I miss that?”

He’d been so distracted by wanting to know about her, wondering about the little things in her life that he’d missed something very important. _Why_ would she have stumbled over a box of books, full of the sorts of things she’d be interested in? More important, a dry box of books. Obviously placed there late at night, probably only moments before she came running by.

Sometimes he really was thick, he thought, as he hurriedly packed things pell-mell into the box, trying to remember the books she’d described. He scribbled a note, checked weather patterns in November of 1996 and estimated the best he could to set the box down between storms.

He’d missing a big part of what he was doing, with all his reading. It wasn’t _just_ about getting to know her. He’d also wanted to make things better for her; to make her life a little better. So why hadn’t he thought of doing something like that before? Why did it take reading it in her journal -the ultimate proof of what had happened- to make him do it?

Well. At least it was done now.

It felt, the Doctor thought as he gave a jaw-cracking yawn, and climbed into his bed for a very brief nap, that he was always giving her books. Books to read for Alison, books to Mels; and later, one blank, blue-bound book to River. At least she liked them. 

He yawned again, another sudden thought striking him as he closed his eyes.

He wanted to know about her. The little things and the big things. Well, in her own way, maybe she was telling him. Letting him know the real her; the things that maybe even the Ponds wouldn’t have known. 

Mels _had_ liked to read.


	12. April 1997

Some days are sparkling and new, with events unfolding fresh as flower petals in the morning. And then there are others… days that feel as though you are stuck on repeat, destined to relive as often as you must until you finally learn to take a new path and progress.

That particular one started like an odd repeat of the day he’d first found out about River’s diary. The Doctor, in braces, bowtie and tweed, fiddling with the controls on the console, thinking of about where next to take the Ponds on adventure. And Amy, collapsed bonelessly on the staircase. Long legs crossed at the ankles, hair falling to hide her face as she flipped one thick page after another of the book in her lap.

“What have you got there, Pond?” the Doctor asked, curiously. Whatever it was, it was clearly something that had her completely absorbed… a rare occurrence in itself. Amy Pond was not a girl for whom silence was a natural state.

“Photo album,” she answered, raising her head. Without her hair curtaining it, he could in fact see the pages blossoming with colors and figures and places. Visual documentation of time passed.

“Taking a trip down memory lane?” he asked as he went to sit by her on the stairs. “Mind if I join you?”

Amy obligingly shifted the book between them for him to be able to see, and started to narrate.

“That was our house in Scotland,” she told him, one purple varnished nail tapping against the picture. “I learned to walk, right there underneath that tree. My Mum said that I took ten steps, and they were so excited that they wanted to film it. My Dad went running to get the video, but when he came back I sat down. Refused to do it again, if the camera was trained on me. The only time I’d walk for the whole next month was as long as no one was watching.”

He chuckled. That was very _her_ , wasn’t it? Amelia Pond, stubborn from the start.

“And that?” A fat cheeked little girl, dressed as a sheep. Her red hair was hidden beneath a furry hat with little white ears poking up, small round body covered completely by a fleecy suit, little black shoes and gloves. Crossness exuded from the picture, evident in her sullen frown and creased forehead.

“Christmas pageant. I wanted to be an angel, and wear the long white dress and the wings. But they always made the little kids dress like sheep and run around with the shepherd.

“I kicked him,” she admitted with a little shrug. “They never made me be a sheep again, after that.”

She pointed at the next page. “This one is from the last Christmas before we moved to Leadworth.” He looked down at the photo of a grinning, dressing gown-clad Amy, holding up a small glass bowl full of goldfish. Behind her was a garishly decorated tree, and shreds of bright wrapping paper on the floor around her.

He should have been prepared for the next page, but somehow when she flipped it over, he wasn’t. Amy and Mels were there, arm in arm. The photographer had caught them at just the right moment: both faces were caught in the midst of complete laughter, smiles from ear to ear, and eyes bright.

Amy, he’d noted, smiled in nearly every picture of her he’d ever seen. A confident, cheerful, ready-to-grab-life-and-shake-it-until-she-got-what-she-wanted sort of smile. But he’d already realized that in the few pictures he’d ever seen of Melody Pond and Melody Lafayette… she never smiled. She was serious. Thoughtful. A little sad. He’d perused those pictures nearly as closely as her diary in those past few months, memorizing her image into his mind as much as her words.

Which was why he couldn’t stop gazing at that photo. Mels, smiling. Mels, laughing even.

“What was going on there?” he asked.

“Oh,” Amy frowned, trying to remember. “The village fete, when we were eight. I think we were raising money to buy books for the library.”

“Sounds like fun,” he remarked. “You must have had a good time.”

A tiny smile lit her face. “We did,” she answered, “but that’s not why we’re both grinning like that. My Mum took that picture after the best part of the whole day.

“See,” she said, turning her face to look at the Doctor, “there was this awful girl in our Year 3. Virginia Drake.” Amy pronounced the name with a hint of derision. “Rotten little prig, always acting like she was better than everyone else.”

“She didn’t like Mels or me very much. Actually, I think she was mad because Rory was always with us and she liked him. Anyway, she had this brother, Emmanuel. He was old, probably about 15 or 16, and he was one of those boys: you know, the type who would steal from the little kids, and mock them. Adults always thought he was so nice, but he really wasn’t.

“I think I was one of his favourites to make fun of, because his sister hated me so much. He made fun of my accent, and of us playing Raggedy Doctor, and… everything really. He made fun of Mels, too. Said she belonged in a mud pit somewhere, not in England, and that she was a freak of nature.

“Well, at the fete,” Amy continued, “Emmanuel was stationed in one of those ducking booths. Where you’d throw a ball, and if you hit the target the person falls through the trap door into a pool? He was taunting the crowd -he was supposed to, to try to get people to hit him- and suddenly Mels said she would try. Her parents had given her ten pounds for the carnival, and she plunked down all of it. Got thirty little beanbags to try throwing… and she got him.”

“Well,” the Doctor said thoughtfully, leaning back against the stairs, “I suppose that if you’ve got thirty beanbags, you’d have to get him eventually.”

“No,” she interrupted, her eyes suddenly animated and shining. “I don’t mean that she got him once. I mean she got him _every time_. Thirty in a row! It was amazing! Like she was this comic book hero, or something. She never, ever missed.

“By the end, all the kids were standing around and cheering for her, and Emmanuel was so mad he wasn’t even talking properly. The people running that booth had to come by to relieve him, because he just kept yelling at her, even after we’d walked away.”

The image Amy’s story had conjured was so vivid that he started to laugh and couldn‘t stop. Mels, childish face set in determination as she threw beanbags with unerring precision. One day, it would be bullets… but that long ago day in Leadworth, it was beanbags to dunk a bully over and over and over.

“What happened then?” he asked, growing serious again.

Amy shrugged. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“I was wondering if he was so mad, that he tried to get back at her somehow.”

Amy laughed, closing the photo album and standing up.

“Doctor,” she said, “everyone tried to get back at Mels when she played a trick on them, or embarrassed them somehow. But she was too good. No one ever did.”

He’d already guessed that about her. She didn’t detail every prank, every smart-aleck comment she’d made in her diary, but there were enough highlights for him to have put together that while most of Leadworth’s youth had followed and been amused by Mels… she must have made quite a few enemies as well.

_I don’t think Jeff has ever forgiven me for calling him obtuse,_ she’d written. _It’s a bit funny that the one comment I hadn’t intended to make is the one that he remembers and holds against me. But remember it he does; and for the last year, he’s been constantly trying to find a way to get back at me._

_Which never works, despite all his efforts. Childish name calling is a game I can win, easily. It is simple to best him with words and insults; I simply know more of them than the average nine year old. And mine are always funnier._

_“You’re… a witch!” Jeff said, facing off against me before class one morning._

_“And you’re a festering pustule,” I retorted cheerfully, pushing past him to get to my seat._

_The other kids might have no idea what those words mean, but they are much more amusing than ‘witch’. Laughter followed my insult, and Jeff slunk to his seat to glare into my general direction._

_“String bean!” he yelled, lobbing a serve at me in our tennis lesson._

_I’d just had a growth spurt, making me taller than all the boys in class. It wasn’t something that bothered me though; except for the fact that my trousers were about an inch too short and looked stupid._

_“Paramecium,” I answered calmly, twisting around and doing a wicked backswing. The ball flew at record speed back toward his head, and Jeff dropped to the ground with a yelp to avoid it._

_Name calling turned into physical shoves on the playground, which wasn’t a problem, either. I was taller and stronger, and I could easily best him there too. He didn’t understand how I knew how to duck away from him before he even touched me, or how to turn his hearty push down the slide into a somersault and come up smiling. To tell the truth, I’m not sure how I do some of those things. But I can do them. And then I push him back and send Jeff flying, to the open guffaws of our classmates._

_“Jeff likes you,” Amelia teased, that summer. I’d gone to her house one afternoon, finding her rummaging through her Raggedy Doctor box. I had a vague idea that she was supposed to have been playing hide-and-seek with Rory; but if she was, she hadn’t been looking for him for a long time even before I came over._

_“No, he doesn’t,” I retorted. “Don’t be silly.”_

_“Boys,” Amelia said, speaking as though with the voice of experience, “only act like that if they like you. You know, trying to get your attention. Just the stuff that Jeff is doing._

_“He liiiikes you,” she sing-songed, grinning at me. “Do you like him?”_

_Jeff, despite the silly name calling and the shoves on the playground, is a nice enough kid. But that’s what he is. A nine year old kid._

_He’ll be cute one day; I can see his future hanging over him. Tall and strong, dark hair gelled back and a face that can break hearts. Oh, he’ll be a catch for some lucky girl, one day. But to me, Jeff is still definitely, and for all time… a kid. Totally unsuitable._

_“No, I’m not interested in him,” I said, tossing my head back. I’d hoped that would end this conversation, but no. I’d just opened the door toward even more teasing._

_“I forgot,” Amelia said with a smirk. “Of course you’re not into Jeff. You’re going to marry the Doctor!”_

_Yet another silly comment made without thinking, and one to plague me for the rest of my days._

_Amelia pushed the Doctor doll into my face, giggling. “Mels and the Doctor, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-”_

_I grabbed it from her, hoping that would make her stop her teasing. The thought of kissing the Doctor was repellent. After all, for 36 years, he’d been a shadowy figure that reminded me of what I’d lost due to his actions and would never be able to have. He’s awful and terrible and bad and vain and selfish… I‘d learned that a long time ago._

_Even beyond everything I’d been told, a part of me still resented him for a more personal, more selfish reason. Once upon a time, Amelia Pond chose him. She was my mother, but she’d shot me out of love for her friend. Deep down, I couldn’t forgive that. Long ago in 1969, she’d loved him best; not me._

_But the more time that passed as I lived in Leadworth, the harder it was to maintain my steadfast anger. The stories my best friend told me seemed to be about a completely different man. An intergalactic handyman and adventurer; the eccentric and intrepid space traveller roaming the universe and fixing things. Amelia wove tales about different planets and times, about him always coming through and saving the day._

_What a strange thought. In everything I‘d ever heard, he ruined things; not fixed them. So which stories were true? Which side of him was the real one: the bad, or the good?_

_“Is he hot?” I suddenly asked, looking at the little figures. My fingers traced over lumpy features and moulded brown hair. It was impossible to imagine what he might actually look like…. And abruptly, I was curious. I actually wanted to put a face to the shadow that he’d always been._

_“No,” Amelia answered, giving me a surprised and slightly withering expression. “He’s **funny**.”_

_Under no circumstances did I intend to marry the Doctor, despite Amelia’s teasing. And yet… I think all little girls dream, at one point or another, of what their husband will be like. Good looking. Smart. Rich._

_But **funny** … now, there was something I’d never even considered. Could he be funny?_

_When I was with Amelia and the other children playing pretend, I’d grudgingly used his title… however inside my own head, I’d rebelled against it, sticking with my childish moniker. But more and more, that name I’d always called him didn’t seem to fit. The Bad Space Man. How could he be so bad, and yet funny?_

_“He looks a bit like Rory,” Amelia said suddenly._

_“Rory Williams?”_

_“Do you know another Rory?”_

_“No… but, how? His face?”_

_She hesitated. “No, not his face. It’s his eyes. When you look into them, it’s like he’s old inside. My Gran used to say some people had ancient eyes.”_

_I knew what she meant. I’d felt it about him before; as though Rory Williams had existed through eons of time because the universe had decreed that one day, he was to live in Leadworth in 1997. He was an old, old soul living in the body of a nine year old. It was all there in his eyes._

_Amelia had picked up the little blue police box, and was twirling around with it in her arms. I glanced at it, curiously._

_“I can’t imagine a space ship looking like that,” I told her. I’d said it before, but never with so much thought behind it. What would a space ship look like? In all the books I’d read years ago with Alison, there had been descriptions of gleaming metal, twists of wires and glowing interfaces; not the shabby blue box Amelia talked about._

_And then time travel… another unexplained phenomena relating to that box. Most ships, in the stories at least, are unable to do both._

“How does he travel in time, anyway?”

_“Because he has a time machine, stupid.”_

_That was all she’d ever told me. That his blue box was a space ship and a time machine. I suppose some things are too complicated for a child to understand, and Amelia had never thought enough to ask. But I am not a child; and so those sorts of questions occurred to me._

_Time travel. It’s a bit thrilling, that thought. Amelia and Rory and all the rest of our friends are seduced by thoughts of the future. Like all children, I suppose, they dream of being older, grown up. Of the amazing things the future could hold for them, and for the world around them._

_But I’ve done that before. I’ve lived longer than most of them could ever dream of, have memories of over three decades pressing down on me with their fashions and technological advancements and politics and ideals. I’m not so interested in what the future could bring. I’m curious about the past. The past of the world, in general… and my own past, specifically. What happened; when and how did it happen? What is the thing that happened to make me grow up in a time before my parents even existed?_

He’d read all that a few days ago. With -it must be admitted- a slight grimace at her admission that the thought of kissing him was repellent. (At least, he comforted himself with a fierce blush, it wasn’t anymore…)

He’d also grumbled a little at reading her new nickname for him: ‘Time Boy‘. It made him sound like some sort of super hero… which wasn’t actually a bad thought, at that. The Doctor smoothed down his jacket, tweaked his bow tie. Time Boy, saving the galaxy. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, really… except that he was sure Mels hadn’t meant it as a compliment. More as an acknowledgement of Amy’s stories, a recognition of his possible good nature and sense of humour. He could just imagine her saying it, with a hint of derision and a little bit of anger still within her eyes.

He was still in the console room, later that afternoon when Rory came in, a thick book beneath his arm. The Doctor smiled, seeing a familiar cover.

“More pictures?” he asked, gesturing toward it.

Rory smiled back. “Looking at Amy’s photo album earlier, were you?”

“She was taking a little trip down memory lane, and I tagged along for the ride.”

“It’s her Mum’s birthday next week and she was looking through the album, thinking of what to get her.

“Today,” he continued in a low voice, flipping open the book, “Amy is making everyone relive the past.”

In a crazy moment, the Doctor almost wanted to ask which past Rory was revisiting. Childhood in Leadworth? Or something far older? The rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Those 2000 years, guarding the Pandorica and waiting for Amy. For just a moment, all of time looked through Rory’s eyes, and the Doctor felt himself shiver despite himself.

Amy had been right, long ago. Ancient eyes, those.

And then the hatch closed, and he became simple Rory Williams once again.

“Did she show you this one?” Rory pointed toward a picture. “School trip to Gloucester.”

The Doctor gazed at the photo. The three of them, arms around each other‘s shoulders. Amy and Rory were laughing, mugging for the camera and clutching ice creams. Mels, standing between them, smiled too… but hers was a cat-who-ate-the-canary sort of smirk.

It was a very familiar look, as a matter of fact. It was amazing, the Doctor reflected, the things that translated from regeneration to regeneration. River wore that same smirk quite often.

“What had she done there?”

Rory grinned, the mood lightening. “She would have to have done something, wouldn’t she? Stole ice cream, from right under the dinner ladies‘ noses. Enough for our whole class.”

“And there?” It was Mels and Amy in that photo, dressed in eighties clothing. Black lace stockings, fingerless gloves, mini-skirts and tank tops, teased hair in side ponytails. Pouting faces glaring into the camera, florescent eye shadow and bright pink lipstick.

“I think it was a crazy dress day at school,” Rory admitted. “They were pretending to be Madonna, back in the 80s. It was Mels’ idea.”

The Doctor snorted. Of course it was Mels’ idea. She’d probably dressed like that at least a few times, long ago as Melody Lafayette.

“And that one?”

“Oh…” Rory grimaced a little. “She didn’t know I took that picture of her.”

It was the first picture he’d seen that reminded him of Melody. A close up shot of Mels, face pensive and eyes downcast. Her chin rested in her hand, as she turned slightly away from the camera. And she had a bruise, right across her cheek. The Doctor trailed a finger across it, his forehead creased in a frown.

“Was she hurt?”

“It was the last day Amy made us play Raggedy Doctor,” Rory said, hesitantly. “She still drew cartoons, and told us stories after that; but it was the last time she made us all pretend.

“There was this boy in the village: Emmanuel Drake. Mels… well, she was the town troublemaker, but she was really just rude and in trouble all the time. Emmanuel was a bully, though, and all his friends were copies of him, without being quite as mean. Anyway, he hated her. I‘m not sure why he had such a grievance against a little girl, but he made fun of Mels all the time, called her a freak and an idiot.

“Never bothered her though; the name calling, I mean. I guess because she knew that she wasn’t an idiot, and she was ok with being a freak. But then he picked on Amy, one too many times. He was watching us playing Raggedy Doctor, and he interrupted just to tell her that she was living in an imaginary world, like a crazy person, and that she was just a stupid, ordinary little girl. Amelia Pond put on a lot of airs, but underneath everything, she was just like everyone else. Nothing special.”

Rory paused, brushing a hand across his face. “Amy‘s face turned red, and she ran away; but everyone could see she started crying before she left. And then Mels… she walked over to him, where he was surrounded by all his friends, and she started talking. It was…” he smiled, “like a Roman senator delivering an oration.

“I still remember everything she said. She told him: ‘You think you’re so funny, don’t you? All those people who look up to you and laugh when you laugh… you know they don’t like you, right? They only respond, because they’re afraid you’ll turn on _them_ if they don’t. Well, I can see you for what you really are. A small, petty person who only likes the misery of others because it makes you feel better about how terrible you are. I don’t care what you say about me, because I could say a lot of things back to you, that you wouldn’t like. But don’t you ever say anything against my friend again. She’s a better person than you will ever be. And she is the most extra-ordinary, special person in the world.’ “

Rory paused, closing his eyes against the memories.

“Good speech,” the Doctor remarked, far more calmly than he felt inside. “I didn’t know Mels was so eloquent.”

“She usually wasn’t,” Rory admitted. “And she wasn’t, after that. Because then she punched him in the stomach, and when he went down, she kept hitting him. She went… well, a bit wild. No one did anything; not our friends, and not his. I think everyone was too surprised, by a little girl beating up this big, mean teenager. He tried hitting back, and he got her a few times, but it was nothing compared to what she did to him… and none of the marks were on his face.”

Just as the Doctor been able to see the image Amy’s memories had called up of Mels earlier, he could see Rory’s now. And he could see that when she was hitting out at Emmanuel, she wasn’t just fighting him. She was fighting the figures from her own past. Bobby Miller, picking on little Melody Pond, and Ivy, long ago in New York. She hadn‘t stood up for herself back then; but she‘d fight the bullies now, for Amy’s sake.

Children should never have to defend their parents. It should be the other way around; parents protecting their children against the evil of the world.

But Mels… she had never been traditional, had she? And he could see all too clearly that she had been determined to do whatever it took to defend her mother.

“When she stopped hitting him, Emmanuel stood up and told her that he was wrong; Amy wasn’t crazy, but that Mels was a little psycho,” Rory said, quietly.

“What did she say?” the Doctor asked.

“She replied that maybe she was. Her eyes were sort of scary when she said it.”

The Doctor paused. He’d always wondered where Mels had the idea she was a psychopath. Maybe it came from there… a stupid comment said by a teenager, angry for being humiliated by a little girl. Or maybe it had started even earlier; and it hadn’t been something she’d been willing to admit to, even in the privacy of her own diary. The musings of a lonely little girl, wondering and rationalizing and fearing why she was always so unloved, so unwanted. She’d been smart enough to know that she wasn’t normal; and well-read enough to know about psychology and what rational behaviour should be…

He sighed. True psychopaths are born, not made; and she had always just been a product of what human-plus-Time Lord DNA, plus her upbringing had created. She was special, his River Song, a one-in-the-universe sort of girl. Not crazy at all.

“I brought her home with me,” Rory said, unaware of the Doctor‘s thoughts. “Her knuckles were a mess, so I patched her up and bandaged them. And I gave her an ice pack to bring the swelling down on her cheek where Emmanuel had gotten her.

“It’s funny,” he continued. “I’d always felt sort of weird about Mels, up until then. We were friends; but she’d always been sort of wild and crazy. She was fun to hang out with, and everything she did got a laugh. But she was just so…” He sighed. “She was just so _much_. Bigger than life. But that day made everything feel a little different. I mean, she was still wild and crazy and funny, but it was like I could see something else in her.

“I guess it’s because that’s not all that she was. She was willing to defend the people she cared about; and I realized I really liked her because of that.”

The idea of asking the Ponds about Mels had been in his head for quite a while, the way how you might have a piece of food stuck between your teeth, and would spend all day trying to worry it out with your tongue. (Not that he was comparing his wife to a little bit of food stuck in his teeth... That was the least romantic image he‘d probably ever had; and definitely one she would not thank him for.)

He’d been thinking of it continually, and just hadn’t been able to find a way to subtly bring it up into conversation without making them uncomfortable. But they’d brought it up that day, both of them. Shared their memories, without causing either of them too much grief. Maybe this was good time, after all.

“Would you do something for me?” he asked Rory.

A faint look of surprise went over his face, and then he nodded. “Another trip?”

“No,“ the Doctor said. “Not a trip. I was wondering… Would you tell me about Mels?”


	13. February 2001

Despite the time that had passed, the sharing of memories he’d done without being prompted, the Doctor noticed a small facial tic when he mentioned the name of Rory’s best friend-turned-daughter. It’s not quite the twitch of pain he‘d expected. More of discomfort, of disbelief, of still not being quite sure how to react to an impossible situation when asked directly.

Yet some instinctive sense told him that Rory was the one to ask first, the one to have a better picture of what Mels had really been like. She would always have been closer to Amy; she’d had over thirty years to idolize her, to wonder what she’d be like… and when she got the chance to know her, she‘d worked hard to create a bond between the two of them whatever it took.

But all she’d ever known about her father was a title, not a name; and so her relationship with Rory had grown with no other expectations or affection blinding either of them. What was between them wasn’t just blood. It was friendship.

“What about Mels?” Rory finally asked. “What did you want to know?”

“Oh,” the Doctor said, twirling a hand around, watching Rory closely. “Anything, really. For example… what was her favourite food?”

“Spaghetti Bolognese.”

“Favourite ice cream?”

“Rocky Road.”

“Favourite colour?”

“Black.”

“Favourite thing to do, as a child?”

“She loved the swings. She’d go as high as she could, to the point when you could hear the chains creak, when normal-” Rory caught himself, with a faint grimace. Now, now that he knew who she really was, his brain stopped himself from thinking anything about Mels that portrayed her as not being normal. What parent would want to think their child is anything but?

“When other kids would have been afraid. I always was; I mean, I was afraid for her. But she’d swing that high… and then she’d jump. As far as she could. She said,” Rory paused, a fond smile creeping over his face, “that it was a thrill. Just like flying.”

The Doctor laughed abruptly. What a premonition of the future that had been. Mels had jumped from high-flying swings… and one day, River Song would leap from windows, thinking exactly the same thing. _What a thrill_. He shook his head, still chuckling. Regeneration didn’t change everything.

“Doctor, I could hear you laughing from the hallway.” Amy walked into the console room, giving them a curious look. “What _are_ my boys up to?”

Rory gave her a little shrug, and a smile. “He was asking me to tell him about Mels.”

And there it was: the shimmer of pain that he’d expected from at least one of them. He could feel it emanating from her, the dual stings that came from the loss of her daughter, not to mention the vague sense of betrayal that in all that time growing up with them, Mels had never found some hint to tell them who she was.

But there was something else hidden beneath the surface hurts that he hadn‘t expected. For Amy Pond, the girl whose life was built on the contradictions of a life that was -and a life that wasn’t- there was a pain that ran even deeper. The loss of just more one thing that once she’d thought was sacrosanct: her best friend. Despite her affection for River… she was not Mels, and Amy missed the girl she’d grown up with.

But she gritted her teeth, shook her head and smiled through it. Amy’s eyes softened as she settled herself on a chair and turned her attention to the conversation.

“What sort of things did you want to know about her?”

“Well,” the Doctor said, thinking madly, “what was her favourite subject in school?”

There was a grimace from both of the Ponds.

“She didn’t like school,” Amy said finally. “I don‘t think she liked being forced to learn anything.”

“No,” Rory corrected, “that’s not true. She just didn’t care about school, or doing well. But if you caught her in the right mood, she knew everything. She was a genius… sort of, well, like you, Doctor.”

The Doctor preened, a little pleased. “I do know a lot,” he admitted, modestly. (Amy rolled her eyes; which he chose to think was merely a human reaction to dust or some sort of allergen, rather than a response to his statement.)

“She was really good with computers and technology,” Rory put in. “It seemed like it was the only subject she didn’t know anything about, and it’s the only class she ever applied herself to.”

He nodded thoughtfully, in reply. That made perfect sense to him. Growing up when she had, computer technology was the one class she would never have had exposure to; and therefore in her constant attempts to stave off boredom, the one she would have been interested in.

“Do you remember,” Amy interjected, “the vending machines?”

“I almost forgot! The bowling alley!” The Ponds dissolved into giggles, with the Doctor‘s forehead creased in confusion as he looked between them. Amy finally took pity and explained.

“As Rory said, she liked technical things. Was always taking things apart, trying to understand what made them work, or fixing them until they did things they never had before. She started with kitchen appliances; made my entire kitchen smell like strawberries every time you used the toaster!”

“Olfactory duplication transmitter,” the Doctor said knowingly. “I did the same thing, once, but couldn‘t get mine to work properly. Made the entire TARDIS smell of cooked cabbage and rotten apples for a month.

“I wonder,” he mused, “how she managed it without a sonic screwdriver? Maybe she used a…” His voice faded as he noticed Amy staring at him, shaking her head in disbelief at the part of the story he‘d focused on.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Mels eventually moved onto bigger things. She did something to the vending machines at the bowling alley, so that when you hit one spot on the side, it would start shooting out Smarties and Aero bars. She always did love candy…”

“Remember when she tried to make Turkish Delight?” Rory asked. “She didn’t have rosewater; so she just ripped the heads off a few dozen roses in the village gardens and stuck them in. Looked awful, and the whole thing tasted like dirt. Sweet dirt.”

The three of them grinned at each other for a moment before Amy leaned forward, her eyes lit up and cheeks flushed.

“The morning announcements! Remember? She had me be the lookout after school one day, while she configured something… made it blast Pink Floyd‘s, ’Another Brick in the Wall’ whenever the Headmaster tried to speak. They finally had to tear it out and put in another system because they couldn‘t figure out what she‘d done to it.”

“She was amazing at running, and at football,” Rory said, his voice full of fatherly pride. “Mels was the best goalie in Leadworth. Never missed a ball. She was even better than any of the boys.”

“She was good at anything physical, or that needed aim,” Amy added, laughing. She turned to the Doctor. “They made us do archery one year. Everyone was awful, except Mels. She could hit the bulls-eye every time. They finally had us stop, when she played a trick on the teacher. She shot an arrow and pinned his sleeve to a tree! It was so deep that he needed to take his shirt off to get away, in the end.”

“She _said_ ,” Rory put in, “that it was an accident. But if it wasn’t; she had amazing aim. Didn’t even nick him.”

He let them keep talking, taking a great deal of pleasure in sharing their memories. It was funny what people considered important. Amy remembered the adventures, the amusing things Mels had said and done. For Rory, it was the little details of who she was, the gentle things and softer side of her personality that occasionally emerged amidst the careless humour and pranks.

But Mels, he realized as he started reading her diary again that night, remembered different things. What she wrote about had meant very little to either of the Ponds, but had been everything to her.

_It’s funny how you never notice the passage of time and the changes it brings in yourself. Years were passing in Leadworth, but except for the cosmetic things -growing taller, getting older- I think that I’ve remained the same. A mix of tomboy and daredevil. Smart mouthing teachers, and being sweet to the Zuckers. Getting into scrapes with Amelia, and gently mocking Rory’s cautious smiles as we dragged him along for the ride._

_No, if there were changes in me, I couldn’t see them, beyond an increase of my boredom and increasingly more wild pranks. But Amelia was a different story… I watched her avidly as she moved down the road from my youthful best friend into womanhood. Of course I knew what my mother looked like; I‘d known that for all my life. But it was fascinating to see it happen before my eyes. She grew long hair and longer legs, shooting up tall and slender. Baby fat gave way to feminine curves; round face to sculpted cheekbones and delicate features, wide blue eyes darkening to a greenish-hazel. I can’t place when exactly it happened. One day she was a child: giddy, excitable and adventurous. The next she was a young woman, still possessing the same endearing qualities, but now she was something more. She was the most beautiful, exciting and popular girl in Leadworth._

_In all those years living around her, I’d never thought about my father… but as the boys began to notice my best friend, I had a sudden revelation. It wasn’t just my Mother that I was growing up with… it had to be him, as well. My Father. The Last Centurion had to somewhere here too._

_But where was he? Who was he, exactly? Roman soldiers are rather sparse on the ground in rural Leadworth, circa 2001._

_So I paid attention to each boy who drifted around her. There was John; solemn, brown-eyed John who tutored Amelia in maths. I had quite liked him, actually. But that relationship lasted only about two weeks before she dumped him for someone new: Michael, the football star of the village. He was a bit stuck up, with a smile like a barracuda. They lasted longer; three entire weeks, before Amelia dumped him too. (I wasn’t too upset by that, to be honest. I would have hated being related to him.)_

_“Do you actually like any of them?” I asked her one afternoon. We were getting dressed for a mate’s party, over at Amelia’s house. Fashion dictated that the sixties were back… and oh, I remembered that era. The clothes in my closet felt like I was visiting with old friends._

_“Yeah, they’re ok,” Amelia said, fussing with her hair. “OK for now. I just feel like… Mels, do you ever feel like there has to be something else out there? Some one, I mean; the perfect person. Your… soul mate.”_

_“Are you becoming a romantic?” I teased as I took over, making a plait of the silky red strands. Amelia had borrowed her mother’s cosmetics, and was painstakingly applied mascara to make her lashes darker, pouting her lips as she put on dark red lipstick that made her look like a vampire._

_“Be serious! I’m not being… romantic.” She pronounced it like it was a dirty word. “It’s just that sometimes I get this feeling like the perfect guy is out there, waiting for me. I’m just not seeing him.”_

_In a way, she’s not wrong. That perfect person is out there for her. He’s called the Last Centurion… but I have no idea where he might be. Or who he might be. He has to have a real name, after all. No one is ever called by just a title._

_(Well… almost no one. Let us not forget Time Boy; otherwise known as the Doctor…)_

_I put my arm around her shoulder and snuggled my cheek against hers. “I bet you’ll find him eventually.”_

_Amelia gave me a sidelong look, and stuck out her tongue at our reflections. “Shut up,” she said affectionately. “No matter what I just said, all that ‘one true love’ stuff is only in fairy tales.”_

_She patted down her reflection in the mirror, admiring herself from all angles. “I guess I’ll just have to keep dating people until I find him,” she said absently. “He’ll be out there somewhere. The Perfect Mr. Pond._

_“Anyway, what about you, Mels?” It was a bit of a sore point for her that while she was a little boy-crazy, I had no interest even in gossip about who-liked-whom. “Isn’t there anyone you like? Maybe… Jeff?”_

_“Not again, with Jeff! I’ve told you…”_

_Amelia laughed, sitting me down to start rimming my eyes with liner, caking so much blush on my cheeks I looked like I should be running around with oversized shoes in a circus tent._

_“I know,” she said cheerfully. “You’re waiting for…the Doctor!”_

_I didn’t even bother to qualify that with a response as I glared. Every so often, Amelia found the need to tease me with that comment. She caught my eye in the mirror and winked._

_“Maybe my perfect person is waiting for me, too,” I finally said, making a face at her before we left for the party. “Off in another world.”_

_It was fun evening with our friends; fun eating and talking and dancing. At least, Amelia danced. My best friend is a bubbly little sort, cheerfully doing the Electric Slide with Sam, and slow dancing with Imran. I watched her with boy after boy, on her endless quest to find her perfect Mr. Pond._

_“Well?” Jeff stood before me, sheepishly holding his hand out. “Want to?” He gestured toward me, then toward the dance floor._

_I raised an eyebrow. “Did Amelia send you over here to ask me to dance?”_

_“Yeah,” Jeff admitted, scuffing his feet on the floor and not meeting my eyes. “She said… I mean, she’s worried you’re not having a good time.”_

_“I don’t need to dance to have a good time,” I retorted. But then I smiled. It was good of her to worry, even if it was unnecessary._

_“Sure,” I replied. “Let’s dance.”_

_We moved onto the floor as the Macarena came on. Across the room, I saw Amelia dancing with Rory. She laughed as she coached him through the steps, physically holding his shoulders to turn him in the right directions. He was laughing too; a carefree sort of laugh he didn’t usually have. Rory was always so quiet, so very cautious. It was nice to see them having a good time together._

_I was so absorbed with watching them, with doing the right steps myself that I didn’t even notice Jeff was watching me, until he waved his hand in front of my face._

_“Sorry,” I said breathlessly. “What?”_

_“You never pay attention to me,” Jeff said, a little sulkily._

_“Well, I’m paying attention now. What?”_

_“I was asking if you wanted to go… if you’d like to… what you’d think of us…” He looked down, shrugging._

_I was about to tell him to just finish his sentence, when I suddenly realized what the end of that sentence might be. Ohhh… Amelia may have been right, about Jeff teasing me because he liked me._

_“Hey, you know who you should ask to dance?” I didn’t give him a change to answer. “Emily. It’s her birthday.” I gave him a little shove in her direction._

_“Off you get,” I said cheerfully. He obeyed, giving me a strange backwards glance. But he did go, and he did ask her. She looked delighted, and I stood back to watch them dance._

_Silly for me to have done that, I suppose. He was only going to ask if I wanted to go to a movie or something. But I’m not interested. Not in Jeff, anyway. And not in anyone else, either._

_I suppose it’s a bit strange to admit this, but in all my life, I’ve never thought about soul mates or even marriage and children; any of those things that normal girls think about. Somewhere in my mind has always been the thought that if my parents didn’t even want me… well, who would?_

_But Amelia’s musing that evening suddenly opened up a door in my mind to at least contemplate who my ideal would be. He should be funny. Adventurous. Smart. All my life, it seems like I’ve been more intelligent than everyone around me; and I want to find someone who can challenge my thinking and -very occasionally- best even me._

_He should be kind… the sort of bloke who is good with children and animals. The type who opens doors for women, and helps old ladies cross the street. I am old enough, and perhaps just old-fashioned enough to cherish the concept of chivalry that existed when I was young._

_He should want to spend time with me… and yet not choke me with his affections. I’ve spent almost forty years by myself, and I don’t think I could ever accept just being someone’s appendage and plus-one._

_He should make me feel safe. Like he’s always there for me. I can -I think, anyway- take care of myself. Despite everything, I‘ve always managed to survive. But it would be nice to not feel like I have to, like I always have to do everything alone. I want someone I could depend on._

_And, finally? He should love me. He should love me so much that he would be willing to do anything for me. He should love me for everything that I am, everything that I have been and everything that I could be._

_There it is. A small list of attributes making up my perfect person._

_I rather suspect that magical man doesn’t exist._

_“Did you have a good time?“ Amelia asked later that night. After the party, we had returned to her house for a sleepover. She brushed out her hair as I put on my pajamas, settled myself into bed._

_“I did,“ I answered. And I had. But it was very different fitting in with pre-teens, than it had been years before on the playground. Adolescents are something in between… Not so young as to greedily seek only carefree fun; yet not so old as to follow all the societal rules of adulthood. Hormones rule, more than thoughts or logic. If I had to choose, I think I preferred being a child._

_She fell asleep almost immediately, but I tossed and turned. I liked her room, but there was something so strange about it at night. It felt as though the walls were whispering to me… as though I could hear voices and a vast rushing through my mind._

_I eventually fell into a fitful sleep, into one of the strangest dreams I’d ever had. I was on a beach, with a man in front of me. Further back, I could see three people; but I couldn’t tell who they were from that distance._

_For that matter, it was impossible to say exactly what the man looked like. It was as though he wore one gossamer mask over the other; his features shifted continually, never settling onto one thing. One moment he was old and white haired, the next he had a strong jaw and an unruly mop of curls, then brown spiked hair which melted moments later into a drooping quiff. His eyes went from blue to brown to green… magical eyes, that were filled with tears as he regarded me. The only thing that was possible to identify was the unhappiness within them. You could see all of time in those eyes; all the joy and sadness of the world._

_“You are forgiven,” he murmured, softly. Something in my heart flipped over, hearing the suppressed misery and calm acceptance in his voice. “Always and completely forgiven.”_

_My arm moved toward him and a green light lanced out, catching him in the middle of the chest._

_And then he collapsed._

_I wanted to get to him. I wanted to help him; but I was frozen in this dream. Gold light swirled around him, spiralling and swooping, distorting those changeable features even more._

_And then I shot him again. His body jerked with a mewling whimper and the light died as he collapsed, lifeless on the sand._

_I screamed, long and loud. What had I just done? Killed him. And why did I do it? I didn’t even know him! This was no monster, as from my usual nightmares. Monsters don’t forgive you even as you kill them, with tears in their eyes._

_Over my screams I could hear a voice, syrupy and familiar._

_“We’ll come for you, Melody Pond. You’ve never escaped us! The time isn’t right yet; but when it is… you are our Hope, never forget that. And you’ll know what is to be done.”_

_I screamed louder, feeling trapped. Something held down my arms and legs, something tangled around me and kept me trapped in this horrible nightmare--_

_**Thwack.** _

_I sat up, blinking in the bright lights of Amelia’s bedroom. My arms and legs were tangled in the bed sheets, and my best friend knelt beside me, face pale. Her hand was only inches from my cheek ready to slap me again._

_“Ow,” I said._

_“You were having a nightmare. I didn’t know what to do.”_

_“Slapping someone is for shock, not bad dreams,” I told her ruefully rubbing my cheek. “Ow.”_

_“Sorry,” she said, sitting back. “You were scaring me, and it just happened. I woke up when you screamed, and then you just kept saying ‘no no no, get up, I’m sorry, I never wanted to do it’._

_“So?” she asked, holding my hand. “What happened? It won’t be so scary if you talk about it.”_

_My nightmares were always terrifying, even if I talked about them. But Amelia looked so concerned that I tried to get the words out, to explain._

_“I killed someone,” I managed to say. My heart was still racing. “I’ve had bad dreams before, but I’ve never killed anyone who seemed so… human.”_

_“Oh,“ she said, regarding me with a surprised look. “Really? I have.”_

_At my shock, she shrugged. “Well, I have. I had a dream about this woman, once. She stole something from me - I don’t remember what- but I hated her for doing it. So I killed her.”_

_There was a look on Amelia’s face, so unlike the one she usually wore. No smiles, no cheerful joking. For a moment, she was not my childish best friend, but a furiously angry warrior. Able to slay dragons, and to destroy whatever threatened her happiness, and that of the people she loved._

_And then she blinked, and went back to being Amelia. Pale, sleepy eyed Amelia._

_“It was just a dream, anyway. Dreams are crazy.”_

_“I don’t know,” I told her. “I’ve had bad dreams before. But this one felt different. It felt real; like it’s going to actually happen one day.”_

_“Sometimes dreams feel like that,” she said. “Most of my dreams feel like I’m living in the past and the future. I don’t think it really means anything._

_“So don’t worry, OK?“ I nodded, as she squeezed my shoulder, gently. “Are you sure you’re alright?”_

_“I’m ok.” I rubbed my eyes, feeling weary and disoriented. The dream had felt so real._

_“Can I ask you something silly?” I looked at her, straight into her eyes. “Do you ever… hear something in your room?”_

_I thought I’d have to explain more of what I meant, but she nodded._

_“I know what you mean,“ she said nodding, “the whispering in the walls. I hear it too, especially at night. But it doesn’t bother me. It’s sort of soothing, like a lullaby.”_

_The strange whispering doesn’t feel like a lullaby to me. More like some sort of water torture. I don’t know how she stands it; it would drive me mad._

_“Do you think you’ll be ok to go back to sleep?” she asked, yawning. I immediately felt guilty, disturbing her from her rest._

_“I can try,” I said dubiously. “Do you have anything to read? Usually when I wake up from a bad dream, I read something until I fall asleep again.”_

_“Bedtime stories?” She grinned. “The three little bears?”_

_Lately, I’ve been translating The Odyssey from Greek into Farsi, for a mental exercise. I doubt that what she had in mind, though._

_“Yes,” I said out loud. “Bedtime stories.”_

_“Oh, come on.” She patted the bed. “I’ll tell you a story, instead.”_

_I laughed, even as I lay down beside her. “You’ll tell me a story?”_

_“Yeah, like I’m your Mum,” she teased. She let out a gurgle of laughter. “Can you imagine that; if I was your Mum!”_

_I closed my eyes, her words suddenly painful. Imagine if she were… Imagine if I were normal and had a normal childhood with a mother there to soothe me back to sleep after a nightmare. Suddenly, I wanted that more than anything else in the world._

_“I can just imagine,” I said softly. “If you were my Mum.”_

_“Come on, then.” She put her arm around me, and I settled my head down onto her shoulder._

_“Did I ever tell you about when the Doctor and I went to Venice?”_

_I shifted my head over, fixing her with a glare._

_“Yes, you did. Does every story have to be about Time Boy?”_

_“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” she sighed. “He has a name, you know.”_

_“The Doctor,” I told her, “is not a name. It’s a title. Time Boy is just as good.”_

_“But it sounds so mean, when you say it. And anyway,” she grinned, “the best stories are about him.”_

_She had a point. Despite if I liked him or not, her stories about Time Boy were always entertaining._

_“Alright,” I grumbled. “Tell me a story. Any story.”_

_There was a pause, and then she squeezed my shoulder comfortingly before beginning to speak in a soft half-whisper._

_“Did I ever tell you about the little girl who dreamed of stars?”_

_My body relaxed, and I closed my eyes. “No.”_

_“It’s the best story I know. Once there was this little girl who dreamed of stars. But there were no stars in the sky at all, where she lived.”_

_“Did she live in a city?” I couldn’t help asking mischievously._

_“Shush,” Amelia said absently, giving me another little squeeze. “There were no stars because they didn’t exist. Not one.”_

_“That’s impossible,” I mumbled. “For there to be no stars, ever.”_

_“Oi, you. Who’s telling this story?”_

_“Sorry. Please continue.”_

_“Something happened, or didn’t happen, so that the stars never existed. But she believed in them; even when everyone told her she was wrong. She remembered what it was like to have the skies full of sparkly diamond-like stars overhead at night... And she believed in her memories.”_

_“What happened?” I murmured, getting caught up. “Did she find her stars?”_

_“She found something better,” Amelia said. “She found a man who said he could fix it, and bring the stars back.”_

_Dimly, I knew she was talking about her Raggedy Doctor. The universe’s handyman._

_“Let me guess. He was a tall, dark, dashing hero…”_

_“No,” she laughed. “He wasn’t. He was funny. A silly old man, with a magic ship.” She paused, for dramatic effect._

_“Did I ever tell you that he stole it?”_

_I shook my head, my eyes still closed. I breathed in her smell: strawberry soap and lemon shampoo, and something else warm and comforting. I burrowed my head closer into her shoulder, wanting to remember this moment forever and ever._

_“Well, he did. He borrowed it, rather. But borrowing means he intended to bring it back; and he never really wanted to return her. And it didn’t matter anyway, because she wouldn’t let him go either. He was her thief, and she was his; and they travelled together forever. The daft old man and his magic blue box, touring the universe._

_“Oh,” she said, softly. “That box.” I could feel her smile against my forehead._

_“It’ll never leave you. Big and little at the same time, and the bluest blue. And the adventures they had…”_

_I drifted off into a dreamless sleep for the first time in my life, with my mother’s voice soft in my ear as she told me the story of the silly old man with his magic box, and of a little girl who dreamed of stars. The best story she knew._

Yes, the Doctor thought as he closed the book and held it to his chest, it was funny the things people thought important. Amy remembered the crazy things, and Rory the details. But for Mels, it was that moment when she got a little of what she’d always wanted. A bedtime story from her mother.

How strange that of all the stories Amy could have told her, all the adventures, the one she’d chosen was the one he’d told _her_ with a hint of conniving, filled with the desperation of wanting and wishing for her to remember him a little.

Or maybe it wasn’t so strange after all. They were all stories, in the end. She’d just picked the best one she knew to soothe her daughter to sleep.


	14. July, 2002

It was rare for Rory to make suggestions about their destinations in the TARDIS, but the morning after their conversation about Mels, he spoke up. 

“I’d like,” Rory said, sneaking a glance at Amy, sitting listlessly over her photo album, “to go back to Venice. I, err… didn’t really appreciate it last time.”

The Doctor gave him a look, but didn’t say a word. All too obvious, the trip wasn‘t for Rory. It was for Amy, to rouse her from the lethargy she‘d sunken into after animatedly sharing stories about her best friend and childhood the previous day. Did Rory mean the trip as a distraction from what she‘d lost, made tangible by her stroll through her memories? Or a nostalgic return to the site of their first date in time and space? 

It didn’t really matter what the exact reason was. An apathetic Amy was no fun at all, for anyone in the TARDIS. Plus, he was privately quite grateful for how easy it had been to extract information about Mels out of them.

So he charted them to Venice -being careful to avoid either Madame Calvierri, or Casanova- to engage the Ponds in a busy day of riding the vaporetto and roaming along the canals; of sightseeing and trying on masks in all the various shops. (He did try looking at the hats, too; but Amy’s sense of humour, lightened by the atmosphere and endless shopping, reasserted itself. She laughed as she dragged him away, claiming that River would never forgive them if they allowed him to buy a thing.)

They snacked on paper-thin pizza with artichokes, fruity gelato, and cup after cup of coffee in each piazza. But the Doctor had a final destination to hit before returning to the TARDIS.

“Everyone,” he told them, weaving through the winding internal streets with the Ponds stumbling behind him, “passes through San Marco, at least once a day. And you can’t go to Venice, and not go to Café Quadri for hot chocolate! They give you a little pitcher of chocolate, and a little one of cream and you can mix them… or not. I like just drinking the chocolate.”

“You would,” Amy mumbled, trying in vain to keep sight of the Doctor‘s tweed-covered back as he ran ahead of them. But even she had no complaints as they finally emerged into the piazza to sit in the restaurant, swirling melted chocolate and cream into their cups as they took in the bustle of people strolling through San Marco at sunset.

“It's so beautiful here,” Rory said, heaving a happy sigh. “Perfect place… perfect company.” He reached across the table to twine his fingers with Amy’s.

“Thank you,” the Doctor said, beaming. “You’re quite good company, too.”

Maybe, he thought, he should mention Amy see an optometrist about that little eye rolling problem she had. It might indicate a deeper issue.

“I’d always wanted thought Venice would be so beautiful and romantic,” Amy murmured, her eyes taking in the wide stretch of the canal, the sunlight gilding the church, and the pigeons following tourists in hope of food. “And it is. 

“And,” she continued, a mischievous smile on her face, “I thought I’d eventually find the perfect guy to bring me here. 

“And look,” she grinned at both of them, “they did.”

Rory shook his head, smiling despite himself. The Doctor smiled too, but Amy’s words about the perfect guy and romantic moments rolled around in his head. 

He had never really asked River what things she thought were romantic. He’d always just tried to surprise her with something amazing… a feat which _didn’t_ work, more often than it _did_. (His wife, after all, was very rarely surprised by anything.)

“Did Mels have boyfriends who did romantic things for her?” he asked suddenly. The surprised -and slightly amused- look both Ponds levelled at him made him blush. What; did he sound jealous or something?

“I mean,” he said, trying to cover, “did she have romantic ideas about what she wanted?”

Amy tried unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, while she thought for a moment. 

“She had boyfriends,” she responded slowly. “Not that many, though. And she wasn’t romantic; she laughed at their faults, actually. Mels always said she had a list of qualities for her perfect guy, and no one she knew really matched up.“

Despite the fact that he -clearly- would never be jealous of her earlier relationships, there was a slightly foolish grin on the Doctor’s face, as he drank a little more chocolate. He’d read her list of ideals. Good things on there… things that rather described someone quite familiar…

Of course, there had been no one worthy to match up. She hadn’t found _him_ , yet.

“I thought she’d really liked Cameron though,” Amy said, leaning back in her chair, and looking at Rory. “Remember him? He was her first boyfriend. He had the cutest dimples.”

“I remember him,” Rory responded automatically. Something darkened his gaze, made his features sinister. 

“Cameron?” the Doctor asked, curious. She‘d never mentioned a Cameron before. “Who was he?”

“Cameron Doyle. They met outside the Headmaster’s office, when she was thirteen. I think he was two years older. It was so romantic… he said ‘hello’ and she said ‘hello’, and they were an item by the end of the day.” Amy sighed, like a love-struck teenager.

“It was like they were made for each other. They were loads of fun, egging each other on into doing the craziest things.”

“He was a bad influence on her,” Rory said flatly. His entire being radiated disapproval.

“Rory, like anyone could have made Mels be worse than she was! Anyway, Cameron didn‘t make her do anything she didn‘t want to.”

“He did, though. Did you realise he was the one who taught her to steal?”

“That’s not true,” Amy said dismissively. “She stole things before she met him. Remember the ice cream in Gloucester? The entire crate of chips from the school kitchens? Or the cider, for Melanie‘s party?”

Even without knowing about the chips or the cider, the Doctor nodded absently. She had been a thief before, long ago in New York. She’d even been quite good at it, having the skills necessary for every thief: being quick enough to secret items away without being noticed, and able to keep a blank smile on her face to fool everyone into thinking she was innocent. River was quite good at that, too… another skill that seemed to go from regeneration to regeneration.

“The ice cream and the chips and everything were sort of funny,” Rory said. “But Cameron taught her to steal cars, and that’s not funny at all. He turned Mels into a criminal.”

A strange silence fell over the table at his words. The smile faded right off Amy’s face as she stared at her husband.

“He… what? Cars?”

“Yeah,” Rory said angrily. “He taught her to pick bike locks, and the proper way to puncture tires. Don’t you remember that wave of bike related crime, the summer we were thirteen? It was Cameron, teaching Mels all his tricks. And then, when bikes weren’t a challenge anymore, he taught her to hotwire cars.” 

Rory had a strange look, one of deep loathing and fierce protectiveness as he recalled his best friend’s boyfriend. Amy didn’t meet his eyes as she picked up her cup of chocolate, aimlessly swirling the contents around and around.

“She never told me that,” she said defiantly. There was a little crease between her brows, a little frown on her lips. “Everything she told me about him made him sound so nice.”

“Well, he wasn’t,” Rory insisted. “He made Mels more reckless that she’d been before. I was glad when she finally got rid of him. He almost got her killed.”

The silence around the table before was nothing compared to the frigid quiet that descended after Rory’s words. Amy’s mouth fell open, and her eyes opened wide. The Doctor looked between the two of them, his eyes flickering right and left, from one to the other. Rory’s face, set in stony disapproval and anger, and Amy’s frozen in surprise.

“You’re lying,” she hissed, suddenly. “How did he almost get her killed and I didn’t know?! Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to,” Rory answered. “I saw her! Bruised and cut up by broken glass.”

“Maybe it didn’t have to do with him,” she insisted.

“It did!”

It was time, the Doctor thought rather belatedly, to jump in. Normally, when the Ponds fought, he tried to stay as far away as he could. (On the other side of the planet, if possible.) It rarely went well when he tried to help, or to interject just the slightest bit of logic into their squabbles.

But this… it wasn’t just something that concerned them, was it? It was about Mels. And if anyone else had a stake in knowing what had happened long ago in Leadworth, it was him.

Plus, he felt a little guilty for asking the question that had brought up this argument.

“What happened?” he asked, glancing at Rory. “What did she say?“

“She never really said what happened,” Rory answered. His eyes were on his hands, fiddling with his napkin. He sounded a little proud, even in anger. “Mels wasn’t a snitch.

“But what I think happened, even if she never really confirmed it, is that he crashed a car they were out on a joyride in. And then he left her in it to take the blame. She blacked out, and only woke up because the radio came on. She must have been hit by the glass from a window or something, because she was a mess when I found her. Blood all down her arm and a big cut on her shoulder.”

Amy wasn‘t saying a word. Her fingernails clinked against the porcelain of her cup, and her lips were pressed tightly together. The Doctor looked at her, expecting her to say something; but for once, Amy Pond was silent.

Which left it up to him to say something. Anything.

“He crashed the car he stole?” the Doctor said, trying for a carelessly incredulous tone. “Why steal a vehicle if you can’t operate it?” As he said it, a fierce blush heated his cheeks. He was very glad the Ponds couldn’t call up the correlations between Mels’ youthful boyfriend and… well, him and the TARDIS.

“She never told me,” Amy said suddenly. “Mels never told me any of that! Whenever she talked about Cameron, she made everything sound so fun, and so perfect.

“We were best friends. Why wouldn‘t she tell me?” Her voice was plaintive, and all of a sudden, Rory‘s face softened. 

“She was always really protective of you,” he answered, putting his hand over hers. “I think she didn’t want to make you worry.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said, with just a touch of bitterness, “she only told me because I found her right afterwards and got her cleaned up. She didn’t care about how she was hurt; just kept talking about falling of a rope and juggling.“

He made a little snort of annoyance. “By the time I figured out what must have happened, she still wouldn’t confirm it. She said she was fine, and made a big deal about how weird it was that the radio came on… If it hadn‘t, she would still have been in the car when it was found, and would probably have gotten into a lot of trouble.”

“The radio came on?” the Doctor asked, leaning forward. “What do you mean, the radio came on?”

“That’s all she said. The radio came on and woke her up.” Rory shook his head, looking a little impatient. “I don’t know anything else. Sometimes getting information out of Mels was like talking to a stone.”

The Doctor was left to conclude that perhaps Venice in any time period was a destination to avoid with the Ponds, in the future. Of all the trips he’d taken with them, there had never been a one that ended on such a sour note. Instead of an apathetic Amy moping around the TARDIS, there was now a grumpy one, muttering that she had a few things to tell her daughter the next time she saw her about getting into trouble and keeping secrets. The Doctor let her talk, and let Rory soothe her. There was really nothing he could say: River’s propensity -like Mels- for attracting trouble was legendary, and she was unlikely to stop just because Amy told her to. (And if he said that, it was only a comment that would make Amy angrier… )

But he had learned something useful. It was easy enough for the Doctor to trace Cameron, and easy enough to find that exact moment when the car crashed. He’d already figured out what would have made a car radio spontaneously go off, even in a crashed car.

Setting 68 on his screwdriver operated sound systems.

And curiosity impelled him to check River’s diary that night after Amy stomped off to her room, furious that he wouldn’t take her to Stormcage to scold her daughter in person. Rory had disappeared after her, with an apologetic smile, and the Doctor slipped off to River’s bedroom.

He wondered, as he opened the book and traced the bold black circles, if she would have felt the crash was important enough to write about. She certainly hadn’t thought it was important enough to worry her mother with.

_As time passed and I watched Amelia’s boy-parade, I finally realized that I did need to find someone to date; if only because Amelia wanted someone to have ‘girl talk’ with, someone with whom to compare notes and gush over boys. I resisted against it as long as I could… but in the end there was no other option. There were days that I thought she liked me for who I am, for the fun that we have together, and the bond that I’ve spent the last few years building between us… but as we get older, there are moments when Amelia seems thoughtless, careless of people and relationships. She treats everyone with a bit of distance, as though she fears they‘ll disappear at any moment; so why bother getting too close?_

_I’m afraid to lose what I’ve tried so hard to build with her. Sometimes, it almost doesn’t matter that it’s a bond of friendship, that she isn‘t quite the mother that I’ve always wanted. I was still reluctant to lose it, no matter what it was, and so I started dating Cam._

_Oh, he was a lot of things, that little boyfriend of mine. Two years older than me, with dark messy hair, green eyes and dimples. Cute and funny, always good for a laugh. He was also as dumb as a stone and not especially kind to children; although he did like dogs, so I suppose he had that going for him._

_But he was nice enough. And he had a way how he looked at me… Appraising, and yet admiring. I rather liked that._

_In the months we were together, I was never quite sure of his real feelings for me. In truth, I think we both saw something in the other that was useful. I wanted him as proof; proof that I could be as ’normal’ as all the other girls… as normal as Amelia, even._

_Cam, on the other hand, seemed to like the idea of having a cohort in crime. My boyfriend was really nothing more than a petty thief in a teenage body, with a guileless choirboy face. As we dated, I realized that I’d managed to get myself involved with a boy who had a nose for sniffing out trouble, and a cavalier disregard for others’ personal property._

_And my original impression of him had been wrong. Cam wasn’t stupid, by any means. He was just clever enough to be sly, and just adventurous enough to get the two of us into more trouble than I’d ever gotten into by myself. He revelled in teaching me his tricks: the simple ones of stealing food and beer from under shop owners’ noses, to the dangerous, destructive ones like slashing bike tires, and hotwiring cars. And he was amused when I not only picked them up quickly, but soon became even better than him._

_“You,” he told me one afternoon, beaming at how I’d managed to hotwire a sports car in just under three minutes, “are brilliant. I can’t believe how fast you learned to do all that! Took me ages.”_

_“What can I say?” I shrugged my shoulders, giving him an innocent smile. “The benefit of good teaching.”_

_Long ago in New York, Melody Lafayette had learned from her fair-weather friends how to steal clothing, cosmetics and jewellery… and had ended up facing possible adult repercussions for it, and put it behind her. So how was it that now, years later, I found myself back in the role of a thief? It seems that some skills have stayed with me, no matter how much time passes. I always was good at stealing. And this, with the cars… I chose to view it as perfecting a new skill. Having the fun I needed to keep my brain active, to keep me from being bored. Sometimes, smart-aleck comments and childish antics alone were not enough to keep me occupied._

_“Hop in,” Cam told me, grinning as he held the car door open. “Let’s see what she can do.”_

_If I have to be honest, that was my favourite part about messing about with cars. After reconnecting the wires, we would take a quick ride together, flying down the road at 100 miles per hour. Oh, it was a thrill, and I loved every second._

_At least it always had been, the other days. But that one… well, it may have been my fault. Cam was the one driving, but I’d been the one doing all the interior work. I guess the blame could be shared evenly, because the end product was the same. We were speeding along a quiet road, when suddenly there was a curve… and a tree… and then a loud squeal as Cam tried -unsuccessfully- to brake in time, and a loud thud when my head cracked against the windshield._

_There was no sense of time passing, in the moment when we crashed. All I was aware of was that everything hurt. My heart raced and my head throbbed and my mind was blank; completely and utterly blank. The slam of the car door brought me back into reality._

_“What are you doing?” I asked, realizing I was alone in the car. Cam was outside, face bloodied and pale._

_“Leaving. Come on, can you get out?”_

_My arms and legs felt like they weren’t working, and my vision was blurred. It was impossible to move my fingers. It seemed like I had about twelve on each hand._

_“No.” My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears. “I can’t move. Open the door and help me.”_

_There was the distant sound of a car, as though it was rushing past us. Cam turned his head, watching something in the distance. It probably was a car; a car who would stop to see who got into an accident._

_“Someone’s coming,” he said, turning back to me. “Sorry, Mels. Sometimes you have to be able to help yourself.”_

_I couldn‘t believe what I was hearing. “What are you babbling about, Cam? Come help me out!”_

_“Sorry,” he said again, backing away from the car. “But it’s no good for both of us to get caught. Anyway, you’re younger than me. You’d get into less trouble._

_“Sorry,” he said once more, before he disappeared from view. I could hear his footsteps running away, and a sudden despair filled me. On one hand he was right; what would they do to a little girl, in a car crash? Would they assume I’d just been a passenger? The problem was, I wasn’t even sure of whose car we had taken. It would inevitably come out that the real owner would have no idea of who I was… and they would certainly also have to report that the car had been stolen and crashed._

_Not a good situation, by any means. And I couldn’t believe that Cam had left me behind. Why? Why did this sort of thing keep happening? Why was I always left behind, or always left so alone? In over forty years, nothing has changed._

_My thoughts were frantic and nonsensical, but I still couldn’t move. Couldn’t make my fingers grip the door handle, or force my body to go, just go and get out of the car. My brain was still jumping between thoughts, even as my vision grew darker and I slumped down with another loud crack as my head hit the window._

_A loud noise made me start, and I bolted back into reality._

_“JFK, blown away, what else do I have to say! We didn’t start the fire! It was always burning since the world’s been turning!”_

_Blaring music through the car forced my eyes open, and as I sat up, my head spun. The radio was on, and what were we listening to? Had I fallen asleep when Cam was driving?_

_No, wait. Not asleep. My mind sorted through the jumble of events. Hotwiring the car. Driving with Cam. And then… oh, the crash. Cam abandoning me, leaving me to fend for myself in a wrecked, stolen car. What a stellar boyfriend I’d picked. A true gentleman; the sort to get you into trouble and leave you behind._

_It seemed I could hear police sirens in the distance, and a sudden rush of adrenaline coursed through my system, making my limbs tingle. I had to get out of this car. I had to get out I had to get out I had to get out._

_My fingers were still useless against the door handle, but there was always a way out. There must be. My body took control; my shoulder rammed against the window before I could think of what I was doing. It shouldn’t have broken… but I suppose that idea of fight-or-flight is correct in lending strength when you need it for an impossible situation. Two good shoves made it crack, and then I could push against it even harder for it to shatter. I managed to climb through the open window frame, cutting my shoulder in the process, and scraping the skin on my arms and legs in the bargain. Time enough to deal with that once I got away._

_I ran down the road, weaving a little as my vision blurred. Some strange instinct and adrenaline had gotten me out of the car, but it seemed my brain still wasn’t working properly. It kept flitting from idea to idea, thought to unconnected thought._

_The more things change, the more they stay the same. Does theft always really lead to the same results? Being abandoned by your colleagues when trouble comes. In the back of my head were Ivy, Leslie and Anita in New York, cheerfully leaving me in Macy’s when the police came, knowing I‘d be the one to take the blame. Running away, like Cam had run away from me today._

_Time and events, they’re a circle. Stupid me, getting into another stupid situation. The adult, cautious part of me was infuriated with myself. I’d been losing myself in the life of Mels Zucker: an ordinary thirteen year old, who was perhaps funnier and more prone to trouble than her classmates. Mels Zucker, who just wanted the outside display of normal life, and normal relationships. But that wasn’t who I am, was it? Melody Pond. Melody Lafayette. Mels Zucker. They’re all fighting for space in my head. Which of those parts of me, past and present were real?_

_Mels, was my bitter, confused thought as I walked back toward the village, is not actually a person. She’s a juggler, skilfully tossing personality elements around. A devil-may-care attitude toward adults. Practiced and careful innocence when I deal with the Zuckers. Light-hearted youthfulness with Amelia. Fun-loving, thrill seeking ex-girlfriend of Cam. I’m a marvel, aren’t I, of letting people see what I want them to see, what I’m careful to let them see and believe._

_Funny that I rarely had these sorts of thoughts, these dark and bitter thoughts, when I was well and unhurt. But in the aftermath of the crash, my mind was racing. I was suddenly so tired of this endless pretending, the slight hint of frustration that my life makes no sense, and the fear that perhaps it never will. I always think things will get better, but they never really do. Forty-one years I’ve been alive, and there is still no one I can trust completely, no one to go to when I’m upset who will understand. Yes, I had Amelia. But in moments of grief and anguish, you want someone who can make things better. A parent. And what did I have instead? A child. A child I could never tell about this._

_She’d never understand, I thought, zigzagging through town toward my house. Amelia liked things that amused her, things that made her laugh. Could she ever understand my stealing a car and crashing it? Or the mental trauma of having secrets you were unable to share, of being so different from everyone around you and just trying to fit in? I could never tell her about this. She’d never understand. No one would._

_“Mels? Mels!” A voice behind me made me whip around in alarm, and then wince. That had been a little too much movement for my already spinning head._

_What happened to you?!” He was staring at my arm, and I glanced down to see a rivulet of blood coursing down from the cut on my shoulder, suddenly aware of my injuries. My shoulder was on fire, and even the small cuts and scrapes were singing with pain. My head had two very tender lumps, when I gingerly prodded it. It was going to be the devil of a time explaining this._

_“I fell?”_

_His eyes were incredulous, scanning over me. “Over what, exactly?”_

_I couldn’t find the energy to explain. I couldn’t even find the energy to lie. The words poured out of my mouth._

_“All I’ve ever wanted is to be normal,” I blurted out. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, all my life. I wanted a home and a normal life. I wanted my real parents -not the Zuckers, I mean- but my birth parents. I’ve always wanted to know them, and to know why they didn‘t want me. I wanted them to like me, even if they couldn’t love me; but to get that I have to be careful of what I say and what I do and how I act._

_“I’m so tired,” I said. The rational, adult part of my head knew I was babbling, nonsense thoughts that should never come out were falling from my lips to the boy who stood before me. “I’m tired of having to pretend all the time. What if this is all there is? What if we’ll never really know each other? I still can‘t figure anything out, and what am I doing here in Leadworth anyway, and why can I never find someone to trust who‘ll take care of me; instead of me always having to take care of myself?”_

_My words died out, and I looked up to see Rory watching me, not saying anything. I suppose there was nothing to say, after my outburst. And I’m sure none of it made sense to him, anyway._

_“Come on,” he said, holding a hand out to me. I took it, taking comfort in how warm his fingers were beneath mine. “I think your parents are out with mine, so there’ll be no one back at yours. Let’s get you cleaned up.”_

_Back at my house, he didn’t say a word as he cleaned my cuts, and thoughtfully disinfected my shoulder while debating how best to bandage it. I closed my eyes, feeling only his fingers gently patting on antiseptic cream, hearing the rustle of paper as he peeled the backings off plasters._

_“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “Put on a long sleeve shirt and fresh trousers, and no one will notice anything is wrong. Try not to get the bandage on your shoulder wet when you take a shower.”_

_I opened my eyes to watch him. I’d noted each and every change in Amelia, but somehow I’d missed Rory’s change from child to young man. Not surprising; there was still a lot of the child in him. He was still short and slight, all large eyes and straggly hair. But at that moment, I remembered why I’d always liked him. There was something so calm about him. So implacable and ancient._

_“Thanks,” I muttered, “for, well…” I shrugged my shoulders, immediately regretting that action as a sharp pain lanced through my arm. I gestured instead toward my shoulder._

_“No problem,” he answered, as we walked back outside into the garden. He leaned back to regard me with a stern look._

_“Mels, about earlier…”_

_I flushed, not meeting his gaze. He was probably about to ask about what I’d said when we’d met on the road; and I couldn’t explain. I just couldn’t._

_“Look,” I said awkwardly, “about what I said--”_

_“You were in shock,” he interrupted. “You weren’t making a lot of sense. Anyway, it’s not about anything you said, Mels. It’s…”_

_I raised my eyes just a trifle to catch the look on his face. There were usually one of two expressions that I always expected to see from Rory. The first was a fond exasperation, when I made him laugh by some antic or another, or as Amelia and I dragged him into trouble. But then there was also one of a mild disapproval, when I insulted someone a little too much, or played tricks that were just a little too mean. Like he was disappointed in me._

_Right now, his expression was definitely more of the latter, mixed with a trace of concern._

_“I don’t know what happened to you today… but this isn’t - you can’t - Mels, why do you do things that get you into so much trouble? You could have been seriously hurt. I still think you should go to the hospital; those are some serious bumps on your head and you might have a concussion._

_“Can’t you try sometimes to just… be good?” He regarded me with a serious expression, no doubt wondering if I’d be angry at his words._

_I wasn’t angry. I was still so tired, of everything. And I’ve been good before. I’d spent two lifetimes being good and careful and cautious and studious. And what had that gotten me? Loneliness. A confused and mixed up life without family or friends or love or security. I’d been so determined this time around, my third childhood and the only one with friends -not to mention my mother- to be different. To be as different as I could; and maybe then things would be better. But they weren’t, were they?_

_“I could be,“ I said, a little grumpy. “But… well, errare est. humanum.” My physical hurts and mental anguish were making me not only sullen, but apparently making me forget to speak English. I was slowly translating Ovid and Catullus in my nocturnal studying these days, and there were moments when Latin felt more familiar than my native tongue. ___

_“To err is human, I mean.”_

_Rory waved a hand, batting my words away. “I’m serious, Mels.”_

_“So am I.”_

_He regarded me with a frown, obviously thinking of what to say. “I worry about you, you know. All your getting into trouble, and then Cameron… He’s really bad for you._

_“I know,“ he said quietly, “about the bikes. I saw the two of you… I think he makes you get into even more trouble than you usually would. You shouldn‘t be around someone like that.”_

_I shrugged. “And you shouldn’t tell me what to do. What gives you that right?“ Mean words, toward someone who had always been a friend; but at that moment I didn’t care. I didn’t want him telling me what to do. What would Rory Williams know anyway, of why I’d been with Cam? What would he know about who I really was?_

_He frowned even harder. “Look,” he finally said as he dug in his pocket to produce a coin, “if you want we can leave it up to chance. Heads, you try to be good; tails, I won’t try to tell you what to do anymore.”_

_Penny in the air, I thought, watching it flip around, a shiny copper disc glittering in the light._

_“Heads,” he announced. There was a slightly triumphant note in his voice as he looked at me._

_And the penny drops. Was he expecting me to become something different, because of a stupid penny and a 50/50 chance?_

_“I don’t see why it even matters to you,“ I said stubbornly. “Why do you care?”_

_“You’re my friend, Mels!“ he shouted suddenly, his hands clenched in fists as his side. My mouth fell open in surprise. I’d never seen Rory act like that. So… angry. Calm and furious all at the same time; a terrifying combination._

_“I care about you, and I don’t want to see you in trouble, or even ending up in jail or something. And if you keep acting this way, being reckless and stealing, then it’s going to happen one day._

_“I’d think,” he said in a quieter voice, “you’d be happy to have a friend who cares about you.”_

_He was right. I’ve never had a friend who cared about me like that. Wanting me to be good, wanting me to be safe. Even Amelia isn’t like that. Amelia is not the type to stop me from causing mischief; she is the sort who encourages and is amused by it._

_“Hey, did you hear?” We both looked up, to see Jeff standing at my gate. He didn’t leave us in suspense for long. “There was a car crash, just down the road! The police think that Cameron Doyle stole it and crashed, and then abandoned it. Someone saw him running through town with blood on his face.”_

_“No,” I said in a thick voice. “We didn’t hear. Thanks for being the messenger.”_

_My wry humour was lost on him. “You’re welcome,” he said cheerfully. “You lot alright? Mels, you look a little funny.”_

_“She’s fine,” Rory said. “She did something stupid,” he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, “and fell down. I was just patching her up.”_

_“Again?” Jeff asked. “You always seem to.”_

_“I do, don’t I?” Rory gave a self-deprecating little shrug, and a wave as Jeff loped off down the street, and then he turned back to me._

_“Mels,” he began, giving me a strange look. “The car crash…?”_

_I watched him, seeing his mind flipping things over and examining them from every angle._

_“Penny in the air,” I mumbled, thinking of the coin he’d flipped earlier._

_“Oh, no,” he groaned. “No. Really? A car?”_

_“And the penny drops. So, you still want to be my friend, and think I can be good?”_

_Rory sighed. “Oh, Mels.” He held his hands out to me, and I cautiously stepped closer as he pulled me into a hug, being careful not to jar my shoulder._

_“I’m always your friend,” he said into my ear, “even if you do things that defy all explanations of stupid."_

_“Why? Just tell me this. Why would you bother?”_

_He pulled away from me, his face twisted up into a slight smile. “Difficilis facilis, iucundus acerbus es idem: non tecum possum vivere nec sine te.”_

_I smiled, despite myself. “Thanks, I think.”_

_“You’re welcome. Now, will you promise? Just try, sometimes, to be good? At least, no more cars?”_

_“Fine,” I said, still feeling a little sullen. “I’ll try. I’m not promising anything though.”_

_“I guess it’s enough for you to at least try. But,“ he grinned at me, “not too good, ok? You wouldn’t be our Mels if you didn’t cause a little trouble from time to time, to make life interesting.”_

_That comment wrung an actual laugh out of me, as he turned to go._

_I’ve never had a friend like that, I thought as I watched him walk away. One who wanted me safe and happy, even if I cause trouble sometimes. What had he said, again? ‘You are difficult and easy, sweet and bitter: it is not possible for me to live with you, nor without you.’ A sweet sentiment._

_My mind suddenly raced. He’d said… what?_

_“Wait… Rory!” Heedless of my injuries, I ran toward the gate, flinging it open in my haste to get to him._

_“What?” He turned around in surprise. “What’s wrong?”_

_“What you said about me… it’s Latin. One of Martial‘s couplets.”_

_“Oh, I guess so. Yeah. Why?”_

_There was something there that I wasn’t putting together. Some little puzzle piece that needed to slot into place, to have everything make sense._

_“How do you know Latin? We don’t study it at school.”_

_There was a look in his eyes before he ducked his head, to avoid my questioning gaze. For just a moment, something ancient stared out at me, something that existed through many lifetimes. An old, old soul in Rory’s thirteen year old body._

_“You’re right,” he said quietly, still not looking directly at me. “I’ve never studied Latin.”_


	15. August 2002

“Still angry?” the Doctor asked the next morning, when Rory walked into the kitchen.

“Still angry,” Rory confirmed, with a nod.

He set about to putting water in the kettle, sorting out tea and sugar and mugs, and the Doctor sighed. He’d hoped a good night of sleep would sort of… iron out Amy’s anger. A vain hope, as it turned out.

“How long can you be angry about something that happened ten years ago?” he grumbled, not really expecting an answer.

“If you’re Amy?” Rory responded, not turning around. “An extremely long time.

“You know,” he continued in a very practiced, nonchalant sort of way, casting a sidelong look over his shoulder, “you could just take her to Stormcage, and let her have it out with River.”

There was something in how Rory said it that told the Doctor that those were not his words. And, probably not his idea, or his opinion of what would actually be best.

“Amy’s idea?” he asked, glancing at Rory from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah…”

They regarded each other with very knowing looks. It was, the Doctor reflected, sometimes quite nice to have Rory in the TARDIS. Amy was fun and always engaging… but there were definitely times that he appreciated that he and Rory were usually on the same page of understanding.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, trying to sound like he would be willing to entertain the idea, “I _could_. But do you think that would really a good idea?”

“For them to talk about something Mels did when she was thirteen? No. Of course not. Amy is all sparks and Mels used to smoulder; but they’ve got the same sort of temper, those two. So when Amy starts yelling at her over something in the past that she can’t change, then I’m sure River will just get mad back at her, and then…” Rory stopped, grinning.

“It’s a scary thought; both the Pond women angry.”

“The earth might shatter under such circumstances,” the Doctor agreed, only just managing to keep a straight face himself.

Rory shook his head, turning serious again. “It’s alright. Give her a few days, and Amy will stop being so angry and start to have some rational thoughts again.

“It’s just… this whole thing makes her crazy. Amy doesn’t do patience very well. She likes to fix things so they go her way, or to shove them along into a recognizable format. And there’s nothing she can do, here, so she‘s decided to be angry over something silly out of the past. She’ll get over it. I mean, we can’t go back in time to be the parents Mels needed, or even to be better friends to her. It‘s a bad situation.”

The use of the plural could have been an accident, but the Doctor rather doubted it was; and he rather doubted it was just Amy who resented that they couldn’t change things. His head was full of what he‘d read the night before -Mels’ sudden revelation about Rory- and he couldn’t help what he blurted out next.

“Are you ever mad at her?” the Doctor asked. “For all the… deception?”

It was the only word he could use, but still inaccurate. Because hadn’t just been deception. It was the things left unsaid; the things that she couldn‘t tell them. A Gordian’s knot of displaced time and tangled relationships, a huge mess that was impossible to unravel, even years later.

There was a long pause between them, and Rory sighed before he left to bring Amy her tea.

“I want to be, sometimes… but she tried her best, didn’t she? She was our Mels back then, even if she can‘t be our Melody right now.

“She tried. And so did we. The best we all could, given the circumstances.”

It was a miserable two days in the TARDIS, with a sulking Amy, a placating Rory and a quiet Doctor. It would be a bad, bad idea to let Amy at River, especially in the mood she was in. River would… well, the Doctor wasn’t sure what she’d do. Probably yell back, as Rory had said. She did have quite a temper, his wife. And she was not the sort to calmly listen to a lecture of her faults.

So he elected to do nothing. Amy would have to calm down eventually, and maybe -just maybe- decide to laugh everything off. He could always hope, anyway… and while he waited out Amy’s grumpiness, it gave him a chance to read.

_I’m not sure what to do anymore,_ she wrote. He could feel the agitation rising off the page, her franticness evident in how rushed the circles looked. _I’m so confused; ecstatic, yes, but confused all the same._

_Have I figured it out? Could it be him who is the Last Centurion? Rory Williams? I’ve always had this image of what my father would be like… tall and strong, broad shouldered and classically handsome in his Roman armour. A fighter, an old-fashioned hero._

_But Rory doesn’t fight. He’s not tall or strong or broad shouldered or classically handsome. It does sound a bit like I’m running him down; which I’m not trying to do. But he really isn’t any of those things. He’s weedy and slightly nerdy and calm and peaceful. Leaving out his physical capabilities… who has ever heard of a peaceful centurion?_

_“What do you think of Rory?” I asked Amelia one afternoon, watching her intently. “Isn’t he… great?”_

_“I guess,” Amelia said, rather absently. “He’s Rory.”_

_“Yes, but isn’t he…” I didn’t know what word to use. Hot? No… Funny? Well, sometimes. The problem, of course, was that Amelia fell in love, time after time, with Hot and Funny. She didn’t really seem to appreciate Loyal and Intelligent; which were Rory’s primary characteristics._

_“Why the sudden interest in Rory?” Amelia asked, giving me a sly smile. “Are you interested in him?”_

_“Absolutely not!” The words burst out of me. I couldn’t help the disgust in my voice. If… just if he was who I thought he could be… what a dreadful idea she’d just presented._

_“Oh,” she said casually. “I just figured that since you and Cameron split up…” She tilted her head to the side, giving me an inquiring look._

_“Why did you two break up, anyway? You never told me.”_

_“It’s nothing important,” I said shortly. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”_

_“He always seemed the same to me.”_

_“Yeah, to you.” I couldn’t help the snippy tone in my voice. “But I saw the real him, warts and all, and decided I don‘t want any part of that. I’ve got a list of what I want in a bloke, and he was failing in a lot of basic ways. Plus, I want someone who can be honest about their dishonesty.”_

_The blank look on her face told me that I was making no sense to her at all, and I wished for a brief moment that I could tell her everything. I wanted to explain everything what had happened with Cam: the hotwiring, and the car crash and him leaving me behind and how miserable that whole situation had made me. But there was easy way to say it; so I just told we’d had some differences of opinion, and left it at that. Unfortunately, Amelia had deciphered that in her mind that we’d had some sort of romantic lover’s quarrel straight out of a story book, which led to my broken-hearted adamancy to never speak with him again. I could have corrected her, I suppose, but I didn’t bother to. Her idea -silly as it was- was as good an excuse as any… especially if I didn’t want to tell her the truth._

_And I didn’t want to. As she grew older, she was starting to change just a little. Ah, adolescence. That painful time of life when you are loathe to seem childish, and so adopting an adult attitude be taken seriously seems like the most important thing in the world. She was still amused when I did funny things… but was starting to despair when I did things that would seem crazy to most adults. No, I didn’t really want to tell her the full truth about Cam. Childishly, I was a little afraid of the whinging I knew she’d level at me._

_“So why were you asking me about Rory, if you don’t like him yourself?”_

_“Well,” I said slowly. “I was just thinking that he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and I was wondering—“_

_“Mels, you’re brilliant!” Amelia interrupted, her eyes lit up._

_“Yes?” I leaned forward eagerly. Did she understand? Was she going to suggest that she and Rory should--?_

_“We should set him up with someone.”_

_Oh. Hopes dashed. Amelia and I were not on the same page, after all._

_“No,” I said, as she whipped out her mobile and started sending a text, “I meant--”_

_Clearly, I was never meant to finish my thought. Amelia looked up, beaming._

_“Sent him a text for him to come meet us in twenty minutes,” she interrupted again._

_“We,” she beamed, “are going to get Rory Williams a date. Brilliant idea, Mels.”_

_I left her brainstorming about the girls we knew, and walked out to meet Rory at the playground by myself. No, it wasn’t a brilliant idea. It wasn’t even my idea. Rory didn’t belong with some arbitrary girl in Leadworth, he belonged with Amelia… right?_

_Once in the park, I sat with Rory in silence until he turned to me with an ever-suffering look._

_“You’re doing it again,” he observed in a casual voice._

_“Doing… what?”_

_“Staring at me. Like you’re trying to see into my brain.”_

_“Didn’t know you had a brain,” Amelia helpfully chimed in, as she appeared from nowhere to fling herself into a seat across from us._

_“It hibernates,” Rory admitted. “But it’s there.”_

_She giggled, reaching over to tap his forehead with one finger._

_“There’s an echo. Sounds empty in there to me!”_

_“Nah… it hides.” He turned his head to one side. “It’s right behind my ear, now.”_

_She giggled again, poking away at his head as he smiled shyly at her. I watched them, trying to understand. I’m good at word games and puzzles… so why can’t I figure this out?_

_Start with a definite event: I was born to Amelia Pond and the Last Centurion._

_Take the latter part of the puzzle, now. Rory knew that Latin poem… so what does that tell me? Either he’s got the knowledge of the Last Centurion in his head; or just that he heard that poem somewhere and had an excellent opportunity to use it. No definite answer, there. So dissect the beginning, then: Amelia is looking for her perfect Mr. Pond, and not finding him no matter how many boys she meets. Is it because she hasn’t met him yet; or because she already has and doesn’t realise it?_

_Is it them? Nervous anticipation made me lean forward, scrutinizing them closely. Can they, the giggling teenagers now poking and tickling each other, be my parents? I can’t be sure. Why can’t I be sure?_

_“Amelia had an idea,” I blurted out, stopping them both mid-tickle. “She thinks you need a girlfriend.”_

_Bomb thrown, I settled back to watch them. The look on Rory’s face was completely priceless, and not something that could be described by mere words. A strange combination of frightened mouse and expectant, predatory cat._

_“Really?” he asked, sounding a little excited. “With, uh… who? Who should be my girlfriend?”_

_“Caroline,” Amelia announced proudly. “I thought of her straight off. She’s pretty enough, right?”_

_His face fell, just enough for me to notice. “Caroline isn’t my type.”_

_“Becky, then,” Amelia suggested. “She’s fit and she’s got great legs.”_

_“Uh… no.”_

_“Lucy? Elizabeth? Sorscha? Maggie?” Amelia was firing names and Rory kept shaking his head. I kept my eyes on them both; willing for something to happen. Something to tell me if I was right._

_“It’s a nice idea,” he said finally, when she stopped for breath, “but none of them is right for me. Thanks anyway.”_

_“Well,” Amelia grumbled, “fine then. We just thought there was someone you’d like enough, to want to be with them.” She flounced away before he could answer, leaving us alone._

_“I should get home,” Rory said, standing up to leave. “It’s getting late.”_

_“Wait,” I told him. “I’ve got one more person.”_

_He sighed, rubbing his face. “Who, then?”_

_“Amelia.”_

_There was a long pause, and I stared intently at him. Had he always had that look in his eyes when he heard her name… and was I blind that I’d never noticed it before? Half puppy and half guard dog, and one hundred percent adoring._

_“You know,” I wheedled, “if you like her, you could just tell her.”_

_“No,” Rory said flatly. “I can’t.”_

_“But you--”_

_“Mels.” Rory’s face went completely serious, his eyes deep and old and knowing. “Don’t interfere.”_

_“But, listen! If you--”_

_“Mels. I said: don’t interfere. If things are meant to happen, then they will in their own time. Amelia isn’t the type to be pushed into anything if she’s not ready; and I’m not the type to push, anyway._

_“You know,” he gave me a smile, and patted my cheek, “you should learn some patience.”_

_Patience, I thought as I walked back home, is a trait that I used to have. I don’t think it is one that I still possess. There is so much in my life that I have had to be patient about… and I don’t want to be patient about this! I want to know if Rory is the Last Centurion. I want to know if he is my father. I want my parents to finish growing up, and I want my life to finally have some semblance of sense to it._

_Rory may have told me not to push, but I couldn‘t help trying, just a little. It didn‘t help that Amelia kept dating one boy after another, constantly asking for my opinion on them before she broke up with them for some imagined problem._

_“What do you think of George?” she asked, peering earnestly at me. “He could be… the One.”_

_I snorted. She thought that each new boyfriend could be The One. Her words, not mine. But since she started dating, I’ve seen many Ones come and go. Mostly go, when she gets bored._

_“I think the same thing about him that I thought about David, and Marcus and Keith and Jason…”_

_“Get Rid of Him is like your mantra, isn’t it?” Amelia grimaced. “Why don’t you like anyone I date?”_

_“Because none of them are good enough for you. They’re not your Perfect Mr. Pond._

_“Oh, and you know who he should be?”_

_I did. I thought I did, anyway. How could she not see what she had in Rory? The guy who would do anything for her, from listening to boyfriend trouble, to letting her practice painting his fingernails in stripes and polka dots. Just yesterday, he’d been sporting green and black glittery plaid nails. What sort of boy lets you do that?_

_“You deserve someone amazing. Who could bring you the stars, if you wanted them.”_

_Her eyes glittered feverishly. “Like my Raggedy Doctor. He could bring me the stars, if I wanted them. Or he could bring me to them.”_

_Mentioning the stars, apparently, had been a bad move on my part. “I think,” I said, trying to be tactful, “that you might want to find someone a little closer to home.”_

_“He is perfect, though,” she mused, tapping one finger against her lips. “He could be my Perfect Mr. Pond.”_

_I managed, only just, not to make a face._

_“How’s Rory doing?“ I asked, instead. “You saw him yesterday?”_

_“Oh, he’s fine. Hey, I just had a thought about why he keeps saying that all the girls here aren’t his type. Maybe we should be looking for a perfect Mr. Williams for him. What do you think?”_

_I managed, once more, not to make a face._

_“I doubt that’s it,“ I said finally. “Amelia, don’t you see--”_

_And I stopped, mid-sentence. I could’ve said it. Don’t you see **him**! He’s not hot or confident or outgoing or wildly spectacular… but he’s your Mr. Perfect, and he’s waiting for you to notice him._

_But I didn’t say it. A little voice, sounding suspiciously like Rory, whispered into the back of my head. Amelia isn’t the type to be pushed into anything if she isn’t ready. And as she looked at me with wide hazel eyes, completely devoid of understanding… I knew he was right. She’s not ready yet._

_“See what?” she asked, curiously. “What don’t I see?”_

_“Nothing,” I said finally._

_“Don’t be like that. What aren’t you telling me?”_

_Oh, my funny Mother. What aren’t I telling her? That list could go on forever. I was born in the future and grew up in the past. And let us not forget that you’re not just my best friend, but my Mum, and Rory is possibly my Father; except that you seem to show no interest in him at all, and I don’t know how to fix that fact. Patience is a highly overrated virtue, and I’m holding onto it with my teeth and fingernails. I’m so tired of just waiting for things to happen. I want to force everything to be alright, and it makes me crazy that I can‘t._

_“Nothing,” I lied blandly. “There’s nothing I’m not telling you.”_

_“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head, with a teasing smile. “Sometimes I get the feeling that you’re keeping secrets from your best friend.”_

It was late enough at night that Amy and Rory were in bed, when the Doctor charted the TARDIS into the hallway at Stormcage.

“Bit late for a visit, isn’t it?” River was standing by the door to her cell, giving him that particular smile of hers that he loved. “Don’t you ever sleep, Doctor?”

“Do you?” he challenged. She laughed.

“Only if I can’t help it. Not that it isn‘t good to see you, but why are you here?”

“I was thinking of you,” he responded. “Wanted to bring you something.”

Her face lit up as he managed to simultaneously sonic the door open, and thrust a bouquet of flowers into her arms.

“Asters! Did you know these are my favourite flowers?”

He beamed, pulling her into his arms, and burying his nose into her hair. “I did, Doctor Song. I thought you could use a little treat.”

She pulled back from him, looking into his eyes. “Why?”

“I can’t do something nice for you?”

“Oh,” she chuckled, “you can. But nice for you is usually some mad adventure. Flowers seem a bit… tame.”

He shrugged. There was no way to tell her that the flowers were a lame apology for the fact that he couldn‘t always protect her the way she deserved. He couldn’t fix her early years, no matter how he tried; he couldn’t fix the mixed up craziness of her life, or her frustration at being unable to force fate to take the course it should. He couldn’t -even if he managed to keep Amy from her until her anger abated- tell her that the next time some version of her saw her Mother, she’d probably have a lot of explaining to do. Being time travellers, as they both were, frequently complicated things more than it fixed them. 

So he said the only thing he could.

“I was thinking tonight that you’re a lot like Amy. You don’t do patience very well either, or waiting…. But you’re here, in Stormcage.”

_For me_ , he wanted to add; but he knew he didn’t need to. She knew him well enough to understand what he meant.

“Mother waited for you, too. Must be one of those inherited traits; like funny big toes, or crooked smiles.”

“The only thing the Pond girls are patient for is when they wait for me?” He pulled her close again, feeling her body fit perfectly in against his. “I think I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

She pulled away from him after a few minutes and climbed into bed, still holding the bouquet. He lay down next to her, and she put her head on his shoulder.

“Do you know why I like asters so much?” she murmured, fingering the delicate petals.

He breathed in deeply, smelling the perfume of her hair, the spicy scent of her skin.

“No,” he replied softly, stroking his hand down the curve of her spine. “You never told me. Just that those were your favourites.”

He could feel her smiling against his chest, and he tightened his arms around her, anticipating one more answer to the unfolding mystery that was River Song.

“It’s because of Tabetha, Amy’s mum. They’re her favourites, too. Mels was… oh, maybe about fourteen, and so impatient to push Amy and Rory together… and so frustrated because she couldn’t. Growing up, I spent a lot of time at the Pond’s house, and got to know Tabetha quite well. This one day… I couldn’t tell her, of course, why I was so upset. But she knew I was.

“She laughed and told me that I was a lot like her, when she was young. So eager, and waiting for life to begin. But I should remember that patience is always worth it in the end. That’s what asters mean, you know. Patience.”

River gave a little sigh, and snuggled closer. Her hair tickled his chin, and he stroked it down with one hand before resting his cheek on top her head.

“I thought she was crazy, at first, but then I really thought about it. See; I spent so much of my life waiting for things… but in the end I got to know my Mum. And eventually even Dad, too; it just took a little longer. She was right. Sometimes patience is worth it. The best things are worth a wait.”

His fingers wove gently through her curls, thinking of what she‘d just said. It was true. She‘d spent the early part of her life just waiting and living the best she could; and she’d spent her time as Mels impatient for life to make sense. River had so many of Mels’ traits: the boldness, the humour and unsquashable spirit… but she also had a veneer of calm that her previous regeneration hadn‘t possessed.

“Am I?” the Doctor asked suddenly, a teasing note in his voice. “Worth the wait, I mean.”

“Well,” River said thoughtfully. “Flowers are nice, Doctor, but kisses...”

He grinned, before tipping her face up to his. “Patience,” he murmured before his lips touched hers.


	16. February, 2006

At the end of two days-worth of a grumpy Amy Pond, the Doctor was a bit on edge. But by the end of five… well, he was far more annoyed than anything else. It wasn't that he didn't understand why she was so upset; he did. Still, it was a misery to keep tiptoeing around her. It felt as though there was a storm cloud hovering, and at any moment, peace and tranquillity would be shattered in a sudden blast of wind and water.

Except, of course, it wouldn't be the elements wreaking havoc. It would be Hurricane Pond, letting loose a torrent of angry words and angrier feelings, all directed toward River. Words that were, for the most part, undeserved. The Doctor loved humans, loved seeing the ways they thought and reasoned and felt… but sometimes they were awfully narrow. So concerned about the rock at their feet that they failed to look up and see the mountain in front of them. It was frustrating it was that he couldn't make Amy understand the big picture: how could River justify a deed committed years ago, that she would never have been able to explain back then? And how long could Amy be mad about that?

Well. With Amy being all upset and human-y, he was still uncomfortable about bringing River onto the TARDIS. Calamity could strike; Pond might explode… all manner of bad things could happen, and at the epicentre would be River, completely confused about why this was happening now.

He just hoped she'd be up for another night in. Which, of course, she wasn't.

"But," his wife protested, arms crossed, "I have to go shopping. And you promised to take me."

The problem with her saying that he'd promised to do something, was that it was all too easy for her to lie. Not that River wouldn't anyway, if it suited her purposes. But with their timelines being what they were, and the sheer bumpy-wumpiness of them… well, it was simple for her to say that if the present him hadn't said something, maybe it was a future him, or a much-more-past-and-forgetful him, or even an alternate-timeline-that-got-changed him; and regardless of which one it was, they were all the Doctor and she expected him to hold up to his end of a bargain.

"I know," he said, flashing her a winsome smile as his mind searched frantically for a distraction. "But I needed to repair something, and I thought that since you're good at fixing things, you could help."

She was still frowning at him. Lower lip thrust out in a pout, and arms crossed.

"It's a TARDIS related thing," he began to babble, just wanting the frown to go away, "and you'd be good with that. Being the child of the TARDIS, you understand the mechanisms, and how to fix everything, and how it all should work. You're almost as good with those things as I am…"

His voice faded as she shifted her weight to the side, tapping her foot.

"I know what you're doing," River said finally. "Or what you're trying to do."

The unspoken statement that followed was: 'and do you think I'm buying it?' No, from the look on her face; he supposed she wasn't.

"Alright," she said in a calm voice. "What is it that needs… fixing?" She started to walk toward the TARDIS, but he grabbed her arm.

"No, no, wait right here. It's something that can be moved. I'll get it."

The problem of course was that there was nothing that needed fixing. Or at least, nothing he could easily rip out of the TARDIS… but, the Doctor thought, eyes darting around the console room, he was brilliant at thinking on his feet. Coming up with plans, seemingly from nowhere, so that most people would never even guess that moments earlier, he'd had no idea of what to do…

He grunted as he pushed the silver box -really, it was heavier than it looked- outside and into her cell.

"There!" he beamed, delighted with his own cleverness. "I need to get this working."

River walked around the box, stooping to examine the flaps, running her hand along its surfaces. When she stood up again, her eyes were unreadable.

"Isn't that your old food machine?" she asked.

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, giving an emphatic nod. "It's quite useful, and it's been out of commission for too long. Let's get to work."

"No," River said. "Wait a minute. The food machine you haven't used since Ian and Barbara were on board?"

He gave another nod, slightly less emphatically this time.

"The one that dispenses solid cubes of gluten extract with only the flavour of different foods, but not the substance?"

He nodded again, a funny sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was a big failing he had, constantly underestimating how clever his wife was.

"The one that Barbara couldn't stand after a few days, so she started to cook instead; and even taught Susan 'human cooking' as well? And the rest of your companions were similarly repulsed by it, so they've always made free use of the TARDIS kitchens too? Are we talking about the same food machine, Doctor?"

Considering all that had happened hundreds of years before she'd even been born, he couldn't help being slightly impressed by River's font of knowledge.

"Well," he said, fiddling with his sleeves, "yes, to all that. But I was thinking that it might be nice to get back into the practice of using it again."

"I'm sure," she replied. Her face was serious, but her eyes were dancing. "Why bother with pesky real food loaded with taste, texture and spices, when you can enjoy a gelatinous cube of artificial flavouring instead?"

There was very little to say. Even he had hated the food machine and was glad when they stopped using it.

"River," he said, feeling a little desperate. "For once, couldn't you just do what I ask?"

" _Sometimes_ ," she emphasised the word, "I do."

"Well, how about this time? Without any questions? Just… please?"

She gave him a smile, walked over and twined her arms around his neck.

"You really want to spend tonight fixing an anachronistic device that even you never liked?"

He nodded.

"Then you need to use the magic words…" she murmured. "Convince me properly."

He rolled his eyes, even as his arms tightened around her waist. "Please help me fix the food machine, River?"

"Those," she said leaning into him, her breath soft and cool against his neck, "aren't the magic words. Come on, sweetie. I know you know them… We're far enough along for you to know what I want to hear from you."

He grinned abruptly, both at her teasing and the fact that even if she knew he had a hidden agenda, she was willing to go along with it. For a price, of course, if his ego could stand it.

"Alright, then. You're better at fixing the TARDIS that I am," he whispered into her ear. "Satisfied, Doctor Song?"

"Oh," River said, with a laugh. "For now. You do tell me the sweetest things."

Despite the fact that the food machine didn't need much done to it, they had a good time. It was, the Doctor reflected, oddly peaceful. The hush of Stormcage, the dim hallway lights; and inside her cell, just a husband and wife working together to repair an unnecessary part of an alien space ship. They didn't always need adventure. Sometimes being… well, perhaps normal wasn't quite the word. But this was nice, too. Calm. Thought provoking.

"River, could I ask you something?" he suddenly said. "I need your help… well, your advice, really.

"What would you do, if you knew you had to explain something you did in the past that a person had only just found out about; and said person was upset at you for it?"

River, wrist-deep in the machine components glanced at him, and then pushed up her goggles. There was an amused look in her eyes as she surveyed him, and slight smile on her lips. "Doctor, what have you done?"

"Me? Nothing!" That much was true; although her smirk made it clear that she didn't believe him.

"Well," she said slowly, putting down her pliers, "I suppose it would depend on what that event from the past was. Something dangerous, that put the angry party at risk? Or just something that annoys them, because they didn't know about it?"

"The latter," he replied. "The angry party is angry that they didn't know it until now."

"I can think of a few solutions, then. Either apologize as quickly as you can, and explain why you didn't tell them - provided you've a good reason, of course. Or…" Her voice trailed off, as she tapped her finger thoughtfully against her cheek.

"Or?" the Doctor prompted.

Her eyes narrowed as they scanned his face, and her teeth worried against her bottom lip. He could almost see the wheels spinning in her head.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked. "Is this something to do with Mother, and why you seem to be avoiding the TARDIS?"

Sometimes, his wife was too perceptive.

"Well…" He tugged at his bowtie, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Actually-"

River began to laugh, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall.

"Spoilers?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He flushed, not meeting her eyes.

"Tabetha told me once," River said, growing serious again, "sometimes when people are angry about something -especially if its something silly- then it might not be what they say they're angry about that's the problem. Sometimes they're hurting, and don't know how to explain what's really wrong.

"Mother is like that," she went on. "She lashes out and it's almost never about what you'd think. The good news is that she doesn't stay angry for very long, and eventually everything will seem alright again.

"You can just let it go and never mention it; but I don't really recommend that." River ducked her head down for a moment, curls falling to shield her face as her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt. Her next words were so soft he almost couldn't hear them.

"Because the next time you have a disagreement, it'll come up again and it'll be even worse for letting it fester."

There was a strange pause between them, a moment when River's lips twitched and he could just sense the words about to come out. An explanation of the exact time she was thinking of; the arguments Mels and Amy must have had. The Doctor held his breath in anticipation; but then River blinked, and the mood was broken. She looked up and gave him… well. If you didn't know her, you might almost think her expression normal. But of course he knew better, and he knew a fake smile when he saw one.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling a little awkward. "You know you can tell me… anything. You know I'll always listen."

"It's nothing," she said automatically, pushing her hair back. Oh, he knew she was lying. He was familiar with that sort of nothing that was really something, but nothing you wanted to talk about.

"It's nothing to worry about," River went on. "And I know you'd always listen, sweetie.

"But sometimes-" she faltered, "it's difficult to find the right words to explain."

It was rare to see his River Song looking so… vulnerable. There was still that smile on her lips, faint and flirtatious; but it didn't reach her eyes. In those he could see a pain she was unwilling to discuss. The sadness of the unhappy child she used to be looked out at him, before she dropped her gaze back down to her hands.

"It's nothing," she repeated, turning back to the food machine. "Nothing to worry about."

"So," the Doctor said slowly, choosing to follow her lead and return to machine repair, "if you don't suggest never mentioning it, then…?"

Her shoulders visibly relaxed, and she let out a deep, shuddering breath.

"From personal experience," River said, her voice sounding almost normal again, "I'd say that when it is you against Mother, even if you don't want to apologize, or shouldn't have to… the mature thing would be to strike first and at least explain your position. If you catch her at the right moment, she might not agree with you, but eventually even my Mum is willing to listen."

It was funny, the Doctor reflected later that night as he sat with her diary, that he'd never heard any of them talk about childhood arguments. Oh, there had been Rory's comment about their tempers… but somehow, he hadn't taken that to mean that they had actually disagreed about things. But clearly, at one point or another, River had gained practice in knowing the best way to deal with her mother.

_So much about my knowledge of living seemed to come from books,_ Mels had written. _My table manners and conversation skills were modelled from the novels of Bronte and Austen; and the mighty Cicero had been an excellent teacher of oration. Plato and Aristotle taught me philosophy, and Voltaire the finer points of satirical humour._

_Having spent much of my life being so lonely with literature as my only companion, I suppose it is to be expected that from between their pages, my ideas of how to live and how you ought to relate to people, places and things took shape. So why, even with how many books I'd read about people not seeing eye to eye, and the spectacular arguments that could ensue when friends fight amongst themselves; was I so surprised when I began to live through it for myself?_

_Friends, even the very best of them could get into disagreements. And families tended to argue, even worse. But I'd never expected that Amelia and I could be like that. We'd always gotten along so well when we were younger, but as teenagers… oh it was rapidly becoming quite different. It felt like there was always something we disagreed about, or was frustrated that the other wouldn't see our way. Little things, insignificant things; and yet they were enough for snippy behaviour, and angry comments traded back and forth._

_For my part, I didn't want to fight with her. She was Amelia! My best friend and my mother, in one headstrong, bossy little package. To be fair, I don't think she wanted to argue with me either. But we did, over and over, until I felt like screaming and shaking her._

_"Amelia," Rory told me when she'd stormed off after one spectacular disagreement about whether it would rain, "says that you're trying her patience."_

_"Well," I grumbled back, "she tries mine. Why is she so stubborn? Look at the sky! It's almost black with clouds; but she tells me she's sure it'll be a nice evening?!"_

_He laughed, seemingly unconcerned. "Why don't you just agree with her on occasion, and leave it at that?"_

_I bit back the words that wanted to come out of my mouth. I don't do that because I am incapable of agreeing with things that don't make sense. Because even if she doesn't know it, I am older than her, and sometimes I know better, and she should trust me…_

_Oh… a bad thought-road to go down. It is a silly, joking fact in books that eventually, every girl will become her Mother; and good heavens, I sounded like I just had. It's a pity that I beat Amelia there._

_"She has you to agree with her," I told him instead. "I shouldn't have to, all the time. And furthermore, why should I? No matter what I say or do, she never listens to me. It feels like she's always mad!"_

_"She does have a temper," Rory admitted, fondly. "But she just flares up for a moment, and if you give her a chance, she gets over it. Try not to let it bother you."_

_But it did bother me. Deep inside was a fear I hesitated to put into words. It wasn't just that Amelia's mercurial temper was a fearsome thing, and I hated having it directed at me. But there was something more… People grow up and change, and sometimes grow apart. But I won't let that happen, between us. I can't. And I don't know how to fix it to make things be like they used to._

_Sometimes I wondered what had happened to the sunny little girl I used to know, what happened to turn her into… well, a teenager. Sullen and sulky and cross, making sense to no one but herself. There were days that everything was good; so very, very good. She was warm and affectionate, clinging to friends and family with loving desperation, almost as though she feared we might disappear. I loved her those days. Exulted in our friendship, enjoyed the fun of being Amelia-and-Mels; the bestest best friends -to quote her- ever._

_But then there were others. The days that she pushed everyone away with harsh words and biting temper, and made tolerating her a misery._

_I tried to be patient, but I suppose it is not a surprise that Mels Zucker is not the most patient of people. And then, too, Amelia is so young… or maybe I'm too old to understand her. For her, I think, the world existed in a series of polar opposites. Good against bad. Happy versus miserable. Madly in love, or intense hatred. There were times I envied her for her uncluttered way of thinking. I'd always seemed to exist in one uncertain shade of grey after another._

_Regardless, there was only so much of her I could take, and then I'd end up lashing out in irritation. I suppose yelling at each other was far better than what I sometimes wanted to do; which was to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to grow up._

_She was trying to, I suppose, but getting there was making me exhausted. I'd never suspected that my Mum could be such hard work, young._

_What else, when we argued and weren't speaking, was there to do but wait? And that drove me crazy as well. The everyday life of Mels Zucker, it seems, is about excitement and tricks and impetuousness and Rory and Amelia. When you take away one of those -the most important of them- what was I left with?_

_Rory was never mine. He was my friend, and possibly more… but in the end, he belonged -heart, soul, and mind- to Amelia. I didn't begrudge it, not really. But from when Amelia and I disagreed, to when we made up; I knew that there was a limit on how much I could pry Rory from her side to keep me company._

_What do you do to fill time, when it seems you have too much of it? I could have read, continuing to work through that box of books I'd gotten so long ago. (It seemed like it must be bigger on the inside, because every time I reached in, I seemed to produce something new I'd never seen before.) But there was only so much of that I could stand; and I preferred to read at night, anyway. Sleep, even after all this time was still an elusive thing for me. Too often I jerked awake out of violent nightmares and sibilant whispers about the terrible deeds of the Doctor, for me to feel comfortable sleeping. Well, no matter. While the rest of the world slumbered, I loved that there was knowledge to be had, adventures to embark upon, even if they were within the written page._

_In the bright light of day, the monotony of school, stupid pranks and reckless behaviour didn't occupy more than a few hours. I admit, I still stole things sometimes… just to keep in practice. Bottles of nail polish, or clothes, mostly. Once I was out of the store, I put the things into a bag and sent them back with a note, detailing how I'd gotten them out in the first place. It was a silly thing to do; but still, sort of a kindness, no? To explain to them how best to fix their security systems._

_I went running often down country paths, weaving through neighbour's gardens, and somersaulting over their fences. Running was something I'd always loved doing, something that used to calm the insides of my mind after bad dreams… but now, it wasn't enough. It didn't relax me the way it used to._

_Some days I'd go to our old playground, seeking the childhood comforts of monkey bars and swings. It was a nice idea, but unsurprisingly, I'm so much bigger and stronger than I was at seven. Climbing, hand over hand across the monkey bars was no longer a challenge; particularly as my feet were only scant inches off the ground. The slides were barely twice my body length, and when I jumped off the swings, I just couldn't jump far enough._

_For the first time in a long time, I felt stifled. The last ten years of my life had been all about getting to know my mother, and without Amelia, who was I? Mels Zucker, forty four-turned-sixteen for absolutely no reason, and trapped in a small rural town. With age is supposed to come wisdom… so where was mine? Where was the tranquillity you are supposed to get, seeing how life has expanded around you and you've made your place within the universe?_

_I'm so tired, I thought constantly, of feeling that I'm treading water. I want to do something. I need to do something, something that makes me feel… alive and real and content with my lot in life._

_"Do you ever feel," I asked Amelia one afternoon, "that all you do is wait?"_

_The last few days had been some of our good ones, the ones that reminded me of why I was happy that I'd finally gotten to know her. We'd gone to a mate's party and danced until the heel actually broke on Amelia's shoes. We'd gone shopping, and to a movie, and it felt like we'd been talking and laughing and connecting for days. But with my question, the room stilled._

_"What do you mean?" she asked. "Waiting for what?_

_"I mean," I said, drumming my fingers on her bed, "waiting to find out what we're supposed to do. In life."_

_"Ohh," Amelia sighed. "You mean like a profession? Yeah, I know. I don't know what I want to do, either. My parents want me to do A levels and go to university, but I want to see the world. To do things, not study them."_

_I couldn't help smiling, just a little. Amelia, while intelligent, is not the most conscientious student. I'm not sure why her parents feel she should go to university, but its not really the right place for her._

_"That's not quite what I meant. These days I feel like…" I paused, searching for the right words. She was my best friend, and I wanted to tell her how I was feeling; and she was my mother in a timeline that didn't make sense, and I couldn't tell her the whole truth. Proper wording was very important._

_"Like I have a reason for being here, and I just don't know what it is yet. And if I could figure it out, then maybe my life would make sense._

_"Because," I went on, "nothing really makes sense to me. About who I am, and what I'm doing, or what I should be doing. And I'm so tired of that feeling."_

_Amelia wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were caught on the tangle of jewellery on her dresser, on her own fingers twisted in her lap, and on the Raggedy Doctor doll she kept draped over a chair. She looked everywhere she possibly could, except at me._

_"I know about waiting," she said, softly, almost to herself. Her breath expelled in a soft whoosh, her shoulders sagging. "I know about wanting things to make sense._

_"But," she added, her voice hardening, "maybe it never happens. Maybe you wait and wait, and this is all there is. Just the waiting. Forever."_

_There was an uncomfortable feeling in the room, a chill running down my spine that made me think of the old saying: 'someone walking over my grave.' There was a subtext in what she'd said, and one I couldn't understand._

_"That's sounds gloomy," I said, trying to laugh away my goose bumps. "Is your search for the Perfect Mr. Pond proving quite depressing, then?"_

_The look she levelled at me was terrifying. Her words, when they came out were even more so._

_"Do you suppose that all I think about is my boyfriends?"_

_"N - No," I stammered. This conversation seemed to have taken a very wrong turn into a very bad neighbourhood, and I wasn't sure of how it happened, or how to fix it._

_"But I don't see… what exactly are you waiting for?"_

_Her eyes, fixed steadily on the wall, flickered momentarily to the doll thrown over the chair, and my heart sank. Him, really? After all this time, she was waiting for her magical Doctor to stroll back into her life and take her away to see the stars?_

_"He's not like you think," I said. Words that I'd never meant to say, words that I never should say suddenly came spilling out with a little bit of anger creeping in._

_"Are you still waiting for him, after all this time? Do you think he's coming back and he'll take you away in his magic ship? If you only knew, Amelia, what he was really like! How could he be as nice as you think, if he broke a promise to a child?"_

_I could have gone on forever, telling her about her precious Doctor. Everything that my dreams had told me was true about him. But I stopped there, because of the look on her face. Her eyes went dead and cold, and her lips compressed into a flat little line._

_"Everything," she said in a low voice, "is not about him. Anyway, he's not like you think; you don't even know him, and I hate it when you talk like that. As though you hated him, when you've no reason to._

_"And, what would you know about waiting? What have you ever waited for in your life? Another opportunity to get into trouble? You're so childish, sometimes!"_

_Anger bubbled up within me, crazed and irrational anger. And with that, the patience I tried to hold onto shattered._

_"Don't you tell me," I shouted, "about waiting! I know a lot about waiting! You could never even understand what I've waited for! I'm not a child, Amelia Pond. I am so far from being a child, that you can't conceive it!_

_"Sometimes you don't understand me at all!" I blurted out, enraged beyond belief._

_"Sometimes I don't!" she shouted back. "Sometimes I wonder why we're even still friends!"_

_There are words, which once they've been uttered are impossible to take back. Hers echoed in my head. Sometimes I wonder why we're even still friends. Eight little words, and each one a knife ripping through my heart. My anger was rapidly replaced by a sorrow so deep I thought I could die of it._

_"Fine," I mumbled. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, then I'll leave."_

_I grabbed my jumper and fled down the stairs, before the tears came out._

_Ten years, I thought frantically. Ten years! Over in a stupid fight. My best friend and my mother… how could I have yelled at her like that? And how could she have said that back to me?_

_Amelia's father looked up as I barrelled out of the front door, and I thought I heard him call after me. But I didn't turn around._

_On an ordinary day, I might have stopped to chat with him about football; or even to sit and watch his favourite show, Life on Mars, with him. That show was the new obsession of the nation… a period drama about time travel, in which a man from 2006 had a car accident and found himself living in 1973. The entire Pond family loved it, and all for different reasons. Tabetha and Augustus laughed frequently, sharing the memories of the 70's it evoked; and Amelia sighed over the hotness of Sam Tyler._

_(Personally, I liked DCI -get angry, shoot first and ask questions later/a little violence gets results faster than niceness/follow your hunches, they're usually correct- Gene Hunt. He was my sort of guy.)_

_But today, I couldn't find words to talk politely to Augustus. And, even beyond needing to escape, I couldn't find any humour in the concept of the series. Sam Tyler, unable to explain whether he was in a coma in the present day, crazy, or had really managed to time travel; had too many parallels to my own life. But at least, he only had to worry about himself. I've got my teenaged parents and my tangled, mixed up life, and violent nightmares and incredible boredom to think about as well._

_I broke into a run the moment I shut the front door, chest heaving and tears finally spilling over my cheeks. The road flashed beneath my feet as I ran… ran away from the thoughts that overwhelmed me, from the feelings that hurt too much to acknowledge._

_Ten years, over in a flash of words I should never have said. Ten years of patience, and wait-and-see, and friendship, and learning about my mother, and loving her for who she was, and… oh! Ten years, and I'd ruined everything because of my stupid, stupid temper and indiscretion of words and the fact that I just didn't know how to deal with her! My mother should have come with an instruction book._

The bottom of the page was wrinkled and tearstained, and the Doctor rubbed his fingers over it thoughtfully. It wasn't the end of their friendship; he knew that. But he hated knowing that she'd been so upset, and that he couldn't fix it. Human relationships and feelings were so messy… which made this one situation that Mels and Amy had to resolve on their own.

Although…

He closed the book, bringing it up to his lips to place a small kiss onto the cover before carefully putting it back on the pillow. And then he jumped up and ran into the kitchen. It was late; well, early, actually. And if he was lucky -which he often was- while he might not be able to fix that argument from the past; at least he could do something about the future.

Amy was hunched over the table in a cupcake-printed nightie, eyes closed and sipping tea as though her life depended on it. River's words were in his mind: strike first and explain your position. If you catch her at the right moment, even Amelia Pond is willing to listen.

He wasn't quite sure this was the right moment to attempt talking to her, but at least he wouldn't lose anything from trying.

"Pond!" the Doctor said, clapping her on the shoulder and pulling up a chair to sit beside her. Her eyes snapped open and the tea sloshed onto her hand.

"I'm waking up," she grumbled. "Slowly. And I'd prefer not to be interrupted."

"I'm not interrupting," he retorted, projecting as much cheer as he could muster. "I'm making conversation."

Amy wrinkled her nose, eyes narrowed. "Why are you such a morning person, anyway?"

"Comes of not sleeping. Come on, Pond. Wakey, wakey; I have something I wanted to tell you."

Even with the anger she'd been steadfastly maintaining through the previous days, not even Amy could be in such a bad mood so early in the morning. Plus, the Doctor thought as he beamed at her, few people were really proof against him when he was at his most charming. Her glare finally turned into a wry smile.

"Alright," she said, grumpily sucking tea off her fingers. "What is it?"

"She couldn't help it," the Doctor said, launching right into what he wanted to say. "Mels, I mean; and her not telling you what happened with the car crash."

Amy's face visibly hardened at his words, and he began to speak faster.

"Amelia, just listen. Try to understand. She couldn't tell you much back then, because you wouldn't have been able to cope with that knowledge; not when you were so young. So if she lied or didn't tell you the whole truth…" He sighed, reaching for her hand, wishing that he could find the perfect words to explain this so she would understand.

"She was a different person back then. She was so accustomed to being alone, until she found you and Rory. And when she did, all she wanted was for you to love her, and not be disappointed in who she was. She'd lost you twice already in her lifetime, and she didn't want to say or do anything that might cause you to not care about her. So she felt like she couldn't tell you the truth."

Amy's fingers twitched in his.

"I know all that," she mumbled, looking down into her tea cup. "I mean, I realized all that."

"So why are you still angry? You can't have a big fight with River over something she couldn't help."

"I'm angry… I'm angry because…" Amy threw her head back in frustration, her hair flying around her in a mass of red tangles.

"I'm mad because I thought Mels was my best friend; and now I'm realizing that she only told me what she thought I could handle about herself and her life. Best friends are supposed to tell each other everything… and it feels like she didn't trust me enough to be honest.

"And…" Amy faltered, fingers clenching into his, "I feel guilty. Because… I could have been better. I could have listened more, or tried to understand more. She tried, you know. I've spent the last few days thinking about it, and she tried a few times to tell me… not everything, but bits of it. How she felt. And I didn't really listen.

"I could have been a better friend to her, and I wasn't always. So maybe in the end, it's my fault she couldn't tell me the truth."

He really preferred for Rory to handle Amy when she was in the throes of emotion; but unfortunately, at that moment he knew Rory was tunelessly belting out Abba in the shower and blissfully unaware of their conversation. No help from that quarter, then.

"She loved you," the Doctor said, finally. He patted Amy's shoulder. "She really did. I know that. And you did do a lot of things that let her know how much you cared about her."

"You don't know all the things I said. She must have hated…" Amy broke off abruptly, her fingers coming up to brush against her necklace, tracing the little golden A against her skin.

"I can't take them back, now." She sighed, shaking her head sadly.

"It doesn't matter. Look; I know she couldn't tell me the truth, back then. But it still hurts, Doctor. Knowing she kept things from me makes me feel like I never really knew her. And then that makes me feel like I just keep losing her again and again and again, in ways I could never have expected." There was a hint of frustration in her voice.

"I'm not really angry with her. I'm just… sad."

Sadness over the past was something he could understand. Regret over the past was something he understood, even better. There was nothing he could say to make that any better. Some things, you just had to learn to live with; knowing that until the day you die, it would stay engraved upon your heart and mind.

River had been right. Sometimes it wasn't always the spoken things that were the cause of unhappiness… sometimes it was the ones hidden away that you could never speak about. He squeezed Amy's hand, and she squeezed back.

"So," she said, pulling him back to the present. "Do you think I should never mention how I feel about all this to her? The crash, and her not telling me the truth back then, and… everything." Her finger traced over the wood grain of the table, purple varnished nail following the swirls.

"I mean, it wouldn't do any good; would it? We can't change the past, any of us."

He wished he could tell her that some things were changeable. Some were. But probably not anything she was thinking of.

"Well," the Doctor said slowly. "I think there are ways to tell her that you'd appreciate her being honest with you in the future, that don't have to involve you yelling."

The ghost of a smile flickered over Amy's face, and she looked up at him.

"River… she's still Mels. Somewhere inside, right?"

"That's right," the Doctor said.

"Then," Amy replied, with a tiny, mirthless laugh, "she knows me. She'd probably be used to me yelling when I was upset, anyway."


End file.
